Short stories from 100 Selected Stories, by O Henry

 The Gift of the Magi

 A Cosmopolite in a Café

 Between Rounds

 The Skylight Room

 A Service of Love

 The Coming-Out of Maggie

 The Cop and the Anthem

 Memoirs of a Yellow Dog

 The Love-philtre of Ikey Shoenstein

 The Furnished Room

 The Last Leaf

 The Poet and the Peasant

 A Ramble in Aphasia

 A Municipal Report

 Proof of the Pudding I

The Gift of the Magi ONE DOLLAR AND EIGHTY-SEVEN CENTS. That was all. And sixty
cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the
vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheek burned with the silent imputation of parsimony
that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents.
And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing left to do but flop down on the
shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is
made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating. While the mistress of the
home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A
furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it cer tainly had that word
on the look-out for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no
letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also
appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name 'Mr. James Dillingham Young.' The
'Dillingham' had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor
was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of
'Dillingham' looked blurred, as though they were thinking seri ously of contracting to a modest
and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat
above he was called 'Jim' and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already
introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good. Delia finished her cry and attended to her
cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking
a grey fence in a grey backyard. To-morrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87
with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with
this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had
calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour
she had spent planning for something nice for him. Some thing fine and rare and sterling -
something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honour of being owned by Jim. There was a
pier-glass between the windows of the room. Per haps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A
very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of
longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had
mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes
were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within twenty seconds. Rapidly she
pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length. Now, there were two possessions of the
James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that
had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba
lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day
to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with
all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he
passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy. So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her,
rippling and shin ing like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself
almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered
for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old
brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still
in her eyes, she fluttered out of the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the
sign read: 'Mme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds.' One flight up Della ran, and collected
herself, pant ing. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the 'Sofronie.' 'Will you buy my
hair?' asked Della. 'I buy hair,' said Madame. 'Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks
of it.' Down rippled the brown cascade. 'Twenty dollars,' said Madame, lifting the mass with a
practised hand. 'Give it to me quick,' said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy
wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present. She found it
at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the
stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in
design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation
- as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew
that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value - the description applied to both.
Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that
chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the
watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in
place of a chain. When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and
reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages
made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends - a mammoth
task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close lying curls that made her look
wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully,
and critically. 'If Jim doesn't kill me,' she said to herself, 'before he takes a second look at me,
he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do - oh! what could I do with a
dollar and eighty-seven cents?' At seven o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on
the back of the stove, hot and ready to cook the chops. Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob
chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then
she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a
moment. She had a habit of saying little silent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and
now she whispered: 'Please God, make him think I am still pretty.' The door opened and Jim
stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two -
and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim
stepped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon
Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not
anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been
prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face. Della
wriggled off the table and went for him. 'Jim, darling,' she cried, 'don't look at me that way. I had
my hair cut off and sold it because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a
present. It'll grow out again - you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows
awfully fast. Say "Merry Christmas!" Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice - what
a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you.' 'You've cut off your hair?' asked Jim, laboriously, as if he
had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labour. 'Cut it off and sold it,'
said Della. 'Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?' Jim looked
about the room curiously. 'You say your hair is gone?' he said with an air almost of idiocy. 'You
needn't look for it,' said Della. 'It's sold, I tell you - sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy.
Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered,' she went on
with a sudden serious sweetness, 'but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the
chops on, Jim?' Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten
seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction.
Eight dollars a week or a million a year - what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would
give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This
dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and
threw it upon the table. 'Don't make any mistake, Dell,' he said, 'about me. I don't think there's
anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any
less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going awhile at first.' White
fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas!
a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment
of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat. For there lay The Combs - the set of combs,
side and back, that Della had worshipped for long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure
tortoiseshell, with jewelled rims - just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were
expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the
least hope of possession. And now they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the
coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to
look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: 'My hair grows so fast, Jim!' And then Della leaped
up like a little singed cat and cried, 'Oh, oh!' Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held
it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a
reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. 'Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it.
You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see
how it looks on it.' Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under
the back of his head and smiled. 'Dell,' said he, 'let's put our Christmas presents away and keep
'em awhile. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your
combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.' The magi, as you know, were wise men -
wonderfully wise men - who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of
giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the
privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the unevent
ful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the
greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days, let it be said that of
all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are
wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi. I A Cosmopolite in a Café AT
MIDNIGHT THE CAFÉ was crowded. By some chance the little table at which I sat had
escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at it extended their arms with venal
hospitality to the influx of patrons. And then a cosmopolite sat in one of them, and I was glad, for
I held a theory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We hear of them, and we
see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find travellers instead of cosmopolites. I invoke your
consideration of the scene - the marble-topped tables, the range of leather-upholstered wall seats,
the gay com pany, the ladies dressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus
of taste, economy, opulence or art, the sedulous and largess-loving garçons, the music wisely
catering to all with its raids upon the composers; the mélange of talk and laughter - and, if you
will, the Würzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe cherry sways on its
branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a sculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was
truly Parisian. My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from next
summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new 'attraction' there, he informed me, offering
kingly diversion. And then his conversation rang along parallels of latitude and lon gitude. He
took the great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly, contemptuously, and it seemed no
larger than the seed of a Maraschino cherry in a table-d'hôte grape fruit. He spoke dis
respectfully of the equator, he skipped from continent to conti nent, he derided the zones, he
mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he would speak of a certain
bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you on skis in Lap land. Zip! Now you rode the
breakers with the Kanakas at Kealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post oak
swamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho ranch, then whirled you into
the society of Viennese arch dukes. Anon he would be telling you of a cold he acquired in a
Chicago lake breeze and how old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the
chuchula weed. You would have addressed the letter to 'E. Rushmore Coglan, Esq., the Earth,
Solar System, the Universe,' and have mailed it, feeling confident that it would be delivered to
him. I was sure that I had at last found the one true cosmopolite since Adam, and I listened to his
world-wide discourse fearful lest I should discover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter.
But his opinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities, countries and
continents as the winds or gravitation. And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I
thought with glee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and dedicated
himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is pride and rivalry between the cities of
the earth, and that 'the men that breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their
cities' hem as a child to the mother's gown.' And whenever they walk 'by roaring streets
unknown' they remember their native city 'most faithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed
name their bond upon their bond.' And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr. Kipling
napping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no narrow boasts of
birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all, would brag of his whole round globe against
the Martians and the inhabitants of the Moon. Expression on these subjects was precipitated from
E. Rush more Coglan by the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the
topography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a medley. The concluding air
was 'Dixie,' and as the exhilarating notes tumbled forth they were almost over powered by a great
clapping of hands from almost every table. It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable
scene can be witnessed every evening in numerous cafés in the City of New York. Tons of brew
have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have conjectured hastily that all
Southerners in town hie themselves to cafés at nightfall. This applause of the 'rebel' air in a
Northern city does puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain, many years'
generous mint and water-melon crops, a few long-shot winners at the New Orleans race-track,
and the brilliant banquets given by the Indiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North
Carolina Society, have made the South rather a 'fad' in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp softly
that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman's in Rich mond, Va. Oh, certainly;
but many a lady has to work now - the war, you know. When 'Dixie' was being played a dark-
haired young man sprang up from somewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically
his soft-brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the vacant chair at our
table and pulled out cigarettes. The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us
mentioned three Würzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man acknowledged his
inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I hastened to ask him a question because I wanted to
try out a theory I had. 'Would you mind telling me,' I began, 'whether you are from - ' The fist of
E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into silence. 'Excuse me,' said he, 'but
that's a question I never like to hear asked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to
judge a man by his post-office address? Why, I've seen Kentuckians who hated whisky,
Virginians who weren't descended from Pocahon tas, Indianians who hadn't written a novel,
Mexicans who didn't wear velvet trousers with silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny
Englishmen, spendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southern ers, narrow-minded Westerners, and
New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on the street to watch a one-armed grocer's
clerk do up cranberries in paper bags. Let a man be a man and don't handicap him with the label
of any section.' 'Pardon me,' I said, 'but my curiosity was not altogether an idle one. I know the
South, and when the band plays "Dixie" I like to observe. I have formed the belief that the man
who applauds that air with special violence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invari ably a native
of either Secaucus, N.J., or the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and the Harlem River, this
city. I was about to put my opinion to the test by inquiring of this gentleman when you
interrupted with your own - larger theory, I must confess.' And now the dark-haired young man
spoke to me, and it became evident that his mind also moved along its own set of grooves. 'I
should like to be a periwinkle,' said he, mysteriously, 'on the top of a valley, and sing too-ralloo-
ralloo.' This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan. 'I've been around the world
twelve times,' said he. 'I know an Esquimau in Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his
neckties, and I saw a goat-herder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast-food
puzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another in Yokohama all the year
round. I've got slippers waiting for me in a tea-house in Shanghai, and I don't have to tell 'em
how to cook my eggs in Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It's a mighty little old world. What's the use of
bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the old manor-house in the dale, or Euclid
Avenue, Cleveland, or Pike's Peak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan's Flats or any place? It'll
be a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or ten acres of
swampland just because we happened to be born there.' 'You seem to be a genuine cosmopolite,' I
said admiringly. 'But it also seems that you would decry patriotism.' 'A relic of the stone age,'
declared Coglan warmly. 'We are all brothers - Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians, and
the people in the bend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one's city or state or
section or country will be wiped out, and we'll all be citizens of the world, as we ought to be.'
'But while you are wandering in foreign lands,' I persisted, 'do not your thoughts revert to some
spot - some dear and - ' 'Nary a spot,' interrupted E. R. Coglan flippantly. 'The terres trial,
globular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles, and known as the Earth, is my
abode. I've met a good many object-bound citizens of this country abroad. I've seen men from
Chicago sit in a gondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage canal. I've
seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of England hand that monarch, without
batting his eyes, the information that his grandaunt on his mother's side was related by marriage
to the Perkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for ransom by some
Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and he came back to Kabul with the agent.
"Afghanistan?" the natives said to him through an interpreter. "Well, not so slow, do you think?"
"Oh, I don't know," says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab-driver at Sixth Avenue and
Broadway. Those ideas don't suit me. I'm not tied down to anything that isn't 8,000 miles in
diameter. Just put me down as E. Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere.' My
cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought that he saw someone through the
chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with the would-be periwinkle, who was reduced
to Würzburger without further ability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, upon the
summit of a valley. I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet
had managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How was it? 'The men
that breed from them they traffic up and down, but cling to their cities' hem as a child to the
mother's gown.' Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his My meditations were
interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in another part of the café. I saw above the heads
of the seated patrons E. Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle. They
fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and men caught their hats up and were
knocked down, and a brunette screamed, and a blonde began to sing 'Teas ing.' My cosmopolite
was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth when the waiters closed in on both
combatants with their famous flying wedge formation and bore them outside, still resist ing. I
called McCarthy, one of the French garçons, and asked him the cause of the conflict. 'The man
with the red tie' (that was my cosmopolite), said he, 'got hot on account of things said about the
bum sidewalks and water supply of the place he come from by the other guy.' 'Why,' said I,
bewildered, 'that man is a citizen of the world - a cosmopolite. He - ' 'Originally from
Mattawamkeag, Maine, he said,' continued McCarthy, 'and he wouldn't stand for no knockin' the
place.' III Between Rounds THE MAY MOON SHONE BRIGHT upon the private boarding-
house of Mrs. Murphy. By reference to the almanac a large amount of territory will be
discovered upon which its rays also fell. Spring was in its heyday, with hay fever soon to follow.
The parks were green with new leaves and buyers for the Western and Southern trade. Flowers
and summer-resort agents were blowing; the air and answers to Lawson were growing milder;
hand-organs, foun tains and pinochle were playing everywhere. The windows of Mrs. Murphy's
boarding-house were open. A group of boarders were seated on the high stoop upon round, flat
mats like German pancakes. In one of the second-floor front windows Mrs. McCaskey awaited
her husband. Supper was cooling on the table. Its heat went into Mrs. McCaskey. At nine Mr.
McCaskey came. He carried his coat on his arm and his pipe in his teeth; and he apologized for
disturbing the boarders on the steps as he selected spots of stone between them on which to set
his size 9, width Ds. As he opened the door of his room he received a surprise. Instead of the
usual stove-lid or potato-masher for him to dodge, came only words. Mr. McCaskey reckoned
that the benign May moon had soft ened the breast of his spouse. 'I heard ye,' came the oral
substitutes for kitchenware. 'Ye can apollygize to riff-raff of the streets for settin' yer unhandy
feet on the tails of their frocks, but ye'd walk on the neck of yer wife the length of a clothes-line
without so much as a "Kiss me fut," and I'm sure, it's that long from rubberin' out the windy for
ye and the victuals cold such as there's money to buy after drinkin' up yer wages at Gallegher's
every Saturday evenin', and the gas man here twice to-day for his.' 'Woman!' said Mr. McCaskey,
dashing his coat and hat upon a chair, 'the noise of ye is an insult to me appetite. When ye run
down politeness ye take the mortar from between the bricks of the foundations of society. 'Tis no
more than exercisin' the acrimony of a gentleman when ye ask the dissent of ladies blockin' the
way for steppin' between them. Will ye bring the pig's face of ye out of the windy and see to the
food?' Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily and went to the stove. There was something in her manner
that warned Mr. McCaskey. When the corners of her mouth went down suddenly like a
barometer it usually foretold a fall of crockery and tinware. 'Pig's face, is it?' said Mrs.
McCaskey, and hurled a stewpan full of bacon and turnips at her lord. Mr. McCaskey was no
novice at repartee. He knew what should follow the entree. On the table was a roast sirloin of
pork, gar nished with shamrocks. He retorted with this, and drew the appropriate return of a
bread pudding in an earthen dish. A hunk of Swiss cheese accurately thrown by her husband
struck Mrs. McCaskey below one eye. When she replied with a well-aimed coffee-pot full of a
hot, black, semi-fragrant liquid the battle, according to courses, should have ended. But Mr.
McCaskey was no 50 cent table d'hôter. Let cheap Bohemians consider coffee the end, if they
would. Let them make that faux pas. He was foxier still. Finger-bowls were not beyond the
compass of his experience. They were not to be had in the Pension Murphy; but their equivalent
was at hand. Triumphantly he sent the granite-ware wash-basin at the head of his matrimo nial
adversary. Mrs. McCaskey dodged in time. She reached for a flat-iron, with which, as a sort of
cordial, she hoped to bring the gastronomical duel to a close. But a loud, wailing scream down
stairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to pause in a sort of involuntary armistice. On the
sidewalk at the corner of the house Policeman Cleary was standing with one ear upturned,
listening to the crash of household utensils. ' 'Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missus at it again,'
meditated the policeman. 'I wonder shall I go up and stop the row. I will not. Married folks they
are; and few pleasures they have. 'Twill not last long. Sure, they'll have to borrow more dishes to
keep it up with.' And just then came the loud scream below-stairs, betokening fear or dire
extremity. ' 'Tis probably the cat,' said Policeman Cleary, and walked hastily in the other
direction. The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey, an insurance solicitor by birth
and an investigator by profession, went inside to analyse the scream. He returned with the news
that Mrs. Murphy's little boy Mike was lost. Following the messenger, out bounced Mrs. Murphy
- two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics, clutching the air and howling to the sky for the loss
of thirty pounds of freckles and mischief. Bathos, truly; but Mr. Toomey sat down at the side of
Miss Purdy, milliner, and their hands came together in sympathy. The two old maids, Misses
Walsh, who complained every day about the noise in the halls, inquired immediately if anybody
had looked behind the clock. Major Grigg, who sat by his fat wife on the top step, arose and
buttoned his coat. 'The little one lost?' he exclaimed. 'I will scour the city.' His wife never
allowed him out after dark. But now she said: 'Go, Ludovic!' in a baritone voice. 'Whoever can
look upon that mother's grief without springing to her relief has a heart of stone.' 'Give me some
thirty or - sixty cents, my love,' said the Major. 'Lost children sometimes stray far. I may need
car-fares.' Old man Denny, hall-room, fourth floor back, who sat on the lowest step, trying to
read a paper by the street lamp, turned over a page to follow up the article about the carpenters'
strike. Mrs. Murphy shrieked to the moon: 'Oh, ar-r-Mike, f'r Gawd's sake, where is me little bit
av a boy?' 'When'd ye see him last?' asked old man Denny, with one eye on the report of the
Building Trades League. 'Oh,' wailed Mrs. Murphy,.' 'twas yisterday, or maybe four hours ago! I
dunno. But it's lost he is, me little boy Mike. He was playin' on the sidewalk only this mornin' -
or was it Wednesday? I'm that busy with work 'tis hard to keep up with dates. But I've looked the
house over from top to cellar, and it's gone he is. Oh, for the love av Hiven - ' Silent, grim,
colossal, the big city has ever stood against its revilers. They call it hard as iron; they say that no
pulse of pity beats in its bosom; they compare its streets with lonely forests and deserts of lava.
But beneath the hard crust of the lobster is found a delectable and luscious food. Perhaps a
different simile would have been wiser. Still, nobody should take offence. We would call no one
a lobster without good and sufficient claws. No calamity so touches the common heart of
humanity as does the straying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; the ways are
so steep and strange. Major Griggs hurried down to the corner, and up the avenue into Billy's
place. 'Gimme a rye-high,' he said to the servitor. 'Haven't seen a bow-legged, dirty-faced little
devil of a six-year old lost kid around here anywhere, have you?' Mr. Toomey retained Miss
Purdy's hand on the steps. 'Think of that dear little babe,' said Miss Purdy, 'lost from his mother's
side - perhaps already fallen beneath the iron hoofs of galloping steeds - oh, isn't it dreadful?'
'Ain't that right?' agreed Mr. Toomey, squeezing her hand. 'Say I start out and help look for um!'
'Perhaps,' said Miss Purdy, 'you should. But oh, Mr. Toomey, you are so dashing - so reckless -
suppose in your enthusiasm some accident should befall you, then what - ' Old man Denny read
on about the arbitration agreement, with one finger on the lines. In the second floor front Mr. and
Mrs. McCaskey came to the window to recover their second wind. Mr. McCaskey was scoop ing
turnips out of his vest with a crooked forefinger, and his lady was wiping an eye that the salt of
the roast pork had not benefited. They heard the outcry below, and thrust their heads out of the
window. ' 'Tis little Mike is lost,' said Mrs. McCaskey in a hushed voice, 'the beautiful, little,
trouble-making angel of a gossoon!' 'The bit of a boy mislaid?' said Mr. McCaskey leaning out of
the window. 'Why, now, that's bad enough, entirely. The childer, they be different. If 'twas a
woman I'd be willin', for they leave peace behind 'em when they go.' Disregarding the thrust,
Mrs. McCaskey caught her husband's arm. 'Jawn,' she said sentimentally, 'Missis Murphy's little
bye is lost. 'Tis a great city for losing little boys. Six years old he was. Jawn, 'tis the same age our
little bye would have been if we had had one six years ago.' 'We never did,' said Mr. McCaskey,
lingering with the fact. 'But if we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this night,
with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres at all.' 'Ye talk foolishness,' said
Mr. McCaskey. ' 'Tis Pat he would be named, after me old father in Cantrim.' 'Ye lie!' said Mrs.
McCaskey, without anger. 'Me brother was worth tin dozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him
would the bye be named.' She leaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and
bustle below. 'Jawn,' said Mrs. McCaskey softly, 'I'm sorry I was hasty wid ye.' ' 'Twas hasty
puddin', as ye say,' said her husband, 'and hurry up turnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. 'Twas
what ye could call a quick lunch, all right, and tell no lie.' Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside
her husband's and took his rough hand in hers. 'Listen at the cryin' of poor Mrs. Murphy,' she
said. ' 'Tis an awful thing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If 'twas our little
Phelan, Jawn, I'd be breakin' me heart.' Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he
laid it around the nearing shoulders of his wife. ' 'Tis foolishness, of course,' said he, roughly, 'but
I'd be cut up some meself, if our little - Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there never was any
childer for us. Sometimes I've been ugly and hard with ye, Judy. Forget it.' They leaned together,
and looked down at the heart-drama being acted below. Long they sat thus. People surged along
the sidewalk, crowding, questioning, filling the air with rumours and inconsequent sur mises.
Mrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft mountain down which plunged
an audible cataract of tears. Couriers came and went. Loud voices and a renewed uproar were
raised in front of the boarding-house. 'What's up now, Judy?' asked Mr. McCaskey. ' 'Tis Missis
Murphy's voice,' said Mrs. McCaskey, harking. 'She says she's after finding little Mike asleep
behind the roll of old linoleum under the bed in her room.' Mr. McCaskey laughed loudly. 'That's
yer Phelan,' he shouted sardonically 'Divil a bit would a Pat have done that trick if the bye we
never had is strayed and stole, by the powers, call him Phelan, and see him hide out under the
bed like a mangy pup.' Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily, and went toward the dish closet, with the
corners of her mouth drawn down. Policeman Cleary came back around the corner as the crowd
dispersed. Surprised, he upturned an ear toward the McCaskey apartment where the crash of
irons and chinaware and the ring of hurled kitchen utensils seemed as loud as before. Policeman
Cleary took out his timepiece. 'By the deported snakes!' he exclaimed, 'Jawn McCaskey and his
lady have been fightin' for an hour and a quarter by the watch. The missis could give him forty
pounds weight. Strength to his arm.' Policeman Cleary strolled back around the corner. Old man
Denny folded his paper and hurried up the steps just as Mrs. Murphy was about to lock the door
for the night. IV The Skylight Room FIRST MRS. PARKER would show you the double
parlours. You would not dare to interrupt her description of their advantages and of the merits of
the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would manage to stammer forth
the confession that you were neither a doctor nor a dentist. Mrs. Parker's manner of receiving the
admission was such that you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your
parents, who had neglected to train you up in one of the professions that fitted Mrs. Parker's
parlours. Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the second floor back at $8.
Convinced by her second-floor manner that it was worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry always
paid for it until he left to take charge of his brother's orange plantation in Florida near Palm
Beach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that had the double front room with
private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted something still cheaper. If you survived
Mrs. Parker's scorn, you were taken to look at Mr. Skidder's large hall-room on the third floor.
Mr. Skidder's room was not vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in it all day long. But
every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire the lambrequins. After each visit, Mr.
Skidder, from the fright caused by possible eviction, would pay something on his rent. Then - oh,
then - if you still stood on one foot with your hot hand clutching the three moist dollars in your
pocket, and hoarsely proclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty, never more would Mrs.
Parker be cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word 'Clara,' she would show you her
back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the coloured maid, would escort you up the carpeted
ladder that served for the fourth flight, and show you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7 by 8 feet
of floorspace at the middle of the hall. On each side of it was a dark lumber closet or store-room.
In it was an iron cot, a washstand and a chair. A shelf was the dresser. Its four bare walls seemed
to close in upon you like the sides of a coin. Your hand crept to your throat, you gasped, you
looked up as from a well - and breathed once more. Through the glass of the little skylight you
saw a square of blue infinity. 'Two dollars, suh,' Clara would say in her half-contemptuous, half-
Tuskegeenial tones. One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter
made to be lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little girl, with eyes and hair
that kept on growing after she had stopped and that always looked as if they were saying:
'Goodness me. Why didn't you keep up with us?' Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. 'In
this closet,' she said, 'one could keep a skeleton or anaesthetic or coal - ' 'But I am neither a
doctor nor a dentist,' said Miss Leeson with a shiver. Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous,
pitying, sneering, icy stare that she kept for those who failed to qualify as doctors or dentists, and
led the way to the second floor back. 'Eight dollars?' said Miss Leeson. 'Dear me! I'm not Hetty if
I do look green. I'm just a poor little working girl. Show me some thing higher and lower.' Mr.
Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarette stubs at the rap on his door. 'Excuse me, Mr.
Skidder,' said Mrs. Parker, with her demon's smile at his pale looks. 'I didn't know you were in. I
asked the lady to have a look at your lambrequins.' 'They're too lovely for anything,' said Miss
Leeson, smiling in exactly the way the angels do. After they had gone Mr. Skidder got very busy
erasing the tall, black-haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a small,
roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features. 'Anna Held'll jump at it,' said Mr.
Skidder to himself, putting his feet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of
smoke like an aerial cuttlefish. Presently the tocsin call of 'Clara!' sounded to the world the state
of Miss Leeson's purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian stairway, thrust her into a
vault with a glimmer of light in its top and muttered the menacing and cabalistic words 'Two
dollars!' 'I'll take it!' sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron bed. Every day
Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home papers with handwriting on them and
made copies with her typewriter. Sometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on
the steps of the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended for a skylight
room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She was gay-hearted and full of tender,
whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr. Skidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished)
comedy, 'It's No Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway.' There was rejoicing among the gentlemen
roomers whenever Miss Leeson had time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss
Longnecker, the tall blonde who taught in a public school and said 'Well, really!' to everything
you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn, who shot at the moving ducks at Coney
every Sunday and worked in a department store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson
sat on the middle step, and the men would quickly group around her. Especially Mr. Skidder,
who had cast her in his mind for the star part in a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life.
And especially Mr. Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flushed and foolish. And especially very
young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask him to leave off cigarettes. The
men voted her 'the funniest and jolliest ever,' but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step
were implacable. ….. I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the foot lights and
drops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover. Tune the pipes to the tragedy of tallow,
the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence. Tried out, Falstaff might have rendered more
romance to the ton than would have Romeo's rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he
must not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain beats the faithfullest
heart above a 52-inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover! Hoover, forty-five, flush and foolish, might carry off
Helen herself; Hoover, forty five, flush, foolish and fat, is meat for perdition. There was never a
chance for you, Hoover. As Mrs. Parker's roomers sat thus one summer's evening, Miss Leeson
looked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh: 'Why, there's Billy Jackson! I
can see him from down here, too.' All looked up - some at the windows of skyscrapers, some cast
ing about for an airship, Jackson-guided. 'It's that star,' explained Miss Leeson, pointing with a
tiny finger. 'Not the big one that twinkles - the steady blue one near it. I can see it every night
through my skylight. I named it Billy Jack son.' 'Well, really!' said Miss Longnecker. 'I didn't
know you were an astronomer, Miss Leeson.' 'Oh, yes,' said the small star-gazer, 'I know as much
as any of them about the style of sleeves they're going to wear next fall in Mars.' 'Well, really!'
said Miss Longnecker. 'The star you refer to is Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia. It is
nearly of the second magnitude, and its meridian passage is - ' 'Oh,' said the very young Mr.
Evans, 'I think Billy Jackson is a much better name for it. 'Same here,' said Mr. Hoover, loudly
breathing defiance to Miss Longnecker. 'I think Miss Leeson has just as much right to name stars
as any of those old astrologers had.' 'Well, really!' said Miss Longnecker. 'I wonder whether it's a
shooting star,' remarked Miss Dorn. 'I hit nine ducks and a rabbit out of ten in the gallery at
Coney Sunday.' 'He doesn't show up very well from down here,' said Miss Leeson. 'You ought to
see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the daytime from the bottom of a
well. At night my room is like the shaft of a coal-mine, and it makes Billy Jackson look like the
big diamond pin that Night fastens her kimono with.' There came a time after that when Miss
Leeson brought no for midable papers home to copy. And when she went in the morning, instead
of working, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in the drip of cold refusals
transmitted through insolent office boys. This went on. There came an evening when she wearily
climbed Mrs. Parker's stoop at the hour when she always returned from her dinner at the
restaurant. But she had had no dinner. As she stepped into the hall Mr. Hoover met her and seized
his chance. He asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an avalanche. She
dodged, and caught the balustrade. He tried for her hand, and she raised it and smote him weakly
in the face. Step by step she went up, dragging herself by the railing. She passed Mr. Skidder's
door as he was red-inking a stage direction for Myrtle Delorme (Miss Leeson) in his
(unaccepted) comedy, to 'pirouette across stage from L to the side of the Count.' Up the carpeted
ladder she crawled at last and opened the door of the skylight room. She was too weak to light
the lamp or to undress. She fell upon the iron cot, her fragile body scarcely hollowing the worn
springs. And in that Erebus of a room she slowly raised her heavy eyelids, and smiled. For Billy
Jackson was shining down on her, calm and bright and constant through the skylight. There was
no world about her. She was sunk in a pit of blackness, with but that small square of pallid light
framing the star that she had so whimsically, and oh, so inef fectually, named. Miss Longnecker
must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation Cassiopeia, and not Billy Jackson. And yet she
could not let it be Gamma. As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time
she got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black pit to Billy Jackson. Her arm
fell back limply. 'Good-bye, Billy,' she murmured faintly. 'You're millions of miles away and you
won't even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you most of the time up there when
there wasn't any thing else but darkness to look at, didn't you? . . . Millions of miles.... Good-bye,
Billy Jackson.' Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at ten the next day, and they
forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and even burnt feathers, proving of no avail,
someone ran to 'phone for an ambulance. In due time it backed up to the door with much gong-
clanging, and the capable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active, confident, with his
smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the steps. 'Ambulance call to 49,' he said briefly.
'What's the trouble?' 'Oh yes, doctor,' sniffed Mrs. Parker, as though her trouble that there should
be trouble in the house was the greater. 'I can't think what can be the matter with her. Nothing we
could do would bring her to. It's a young woman, a Miss Elsie - yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never
before in my house - ' 'What room?' cried the doctor in a terrible voice, to which Mrs. Parker was
a stranger. 'The skylight room. It - ' Evidently the ambulance doctor was familiar with the
location of skylight rooms. He was gone up the stairs, four at a time. Mrs. Parker followed
slowly, as her dignity demanded. On the first landing she met him coming back bearing the
astronomer in his arms. He stopped and let loose the practised scalpel of his tongue, not loudly.
Gradually Mrs. Parker crumpled as a stiff garment that slips down from a nail. Ever afterwards
there remained crumples in her mind and body. Sometimes her curious roomers would ask her
what the doctor said to her. 'Let that be,' she would answer. 'If I can get forgiveness for having
heard it I will be satisfied.' The ambulance physician strode with his burden through the pack of
hounds that follow the curiosity chase, and even they fell back along the sidewalk abashed, for
his face was that of one who bears his own dead. They noticed that he did not lay down upon the
bed prepared for it in the ambulance the form that he carried, and all that he said was: 'Drive like
h - l, Wilson,' to the driver. That is all. Is it a story? In the next morning's paper I saw a little
news item, and the last sentence of it may help you (as it helped me) to weld the incidents
together. It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of a young woman who had been
removed from No. 49 East - Street, suffer ing from debility induced by starvation. It concluded
with these words: 'Dr. William Jackson, the ambulance physician who attended the case, says the
patient will recover.' V A Service of Love WHEN ONE LOVES ONES ART no service seems
too hard. That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and show at the same
time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new thing in logic, and a feat in story-telling
somewhat older than the Great Wall of China. Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the
Middle West pulsing with a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town pump
with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was framed and hung in the drug store
window by the side of the ear of corn with an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New
York with a flowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer. Delia Caruthers did things in
six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree village in the South that her relatives chipped in enough
in her chip hat for her to go 'North' and 'finish.' They could not see her f -, but that is our story
Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music students had gathered to discuss
chiaroscuro, Wagner, music, Rembrandt's works pictures, Waldteufel, wall-paper, Chopin, and
Oolong. Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other or each of the other, as you please,
and in a short time were married - for (see above), when one loves one's Art no service seem too
hard. Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome flat - something
like the A sharp way down at the left hand end of the keyboard. And they were happy; for they
had their Art and they had each other. And my advice to the rich young man would be - sell all
thou hast, and give it to the poor - janitor for the privilege of living in a flat with your Art and
your Delia. Flat-dwellers shall endorse my dictum that theirs is the only true happiness. If a
home is happy it cannot fit too close - let the dresser collapse and become a billiard table; let the
mantel turn to a rowing machine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the wash stand to an
upright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you and your Delia are between.
But if home be the other kind, let it be wide and long - enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your
hat on Hatteras, your cape on Cape Horn, and go out by Labrador. Joe was painting in the class
of the great Magister - you know his fame. His fees are high; his lessons are light - his high-
lights have brought him renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock you know his repute as a
disturber of the piano keys. They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every -
but I will not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to become capable
very soon of turning out pic tures that old gentlemen with thin side-whiskers and thick pocket
books would sandbag one another in his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become
familiar and then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra seats and boxes
unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a private dining-room and refuse to go on the
stage. But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat the ardent, voluble chats
after the day's study; the cosy dinners and fresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions -
ambi tions interwoven each with the other's or else inconsiderable - the mutual help and
inspiration; and - overlook my artlessness stuffed olives and cheese sandwiches at 11p.m. But
after awhile Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some switchman doesn't flag it. Everything
going out and nothing coming in, as the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister
and Herr Rosenstock their prices. When one loves one's Art no service seems too hard. So, Delia
said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing dish bubbling. For two or three days she
went out canvassing for pupils. One evening she came home elated. 'Joe, dear,' she said gleefully,
'I've a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest people! General - General A. B. Pinkney's daughter - on
Seventy first Street. Such a splendid house, Joe - you ought to see the front door! Byzantine I
think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw anything like it before. 'My pupil is his
daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She's a delicate thing - dresses always in white;
and the sweetest, simplest manners! Only eighteen years old. I'm to give three lessons a week;
and, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don't mind it a bit; for when I get two or three more pupils I
can resume my lessons with Herr Rosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your
brows, dear, and let's have a nice supper.' 'That's all right for you, Dele,' said Joe, attacking a can
of peas with a carving knife and a hatchet, 'but how about me? Do you think I'm going to let you
hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of high art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto
Cellini! I guess I can sell papers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.' Delia came
and hung about his neck. 'Joe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not as if
I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I teach I learn. I am always with
my music. And we can live as happily as millionaires on $15 a week. You mustn't think of
leaving Mr. Magister.' 'All right,' said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish. 'But I
hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn't Art. But you're a trump and a dear to do it.' 'When one
loves one's Art no service seems too hard,' said Delia. 'Magister praised the sky in that sketch I
made in the park,' said Joe. 'And Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window.
I may sell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them.' 'I'm sure you will,' said Delia
sweetly. 'And now let's be thankful for General Pinkney and this veal roast.' During all of the
next week the Larrabees had an early break fast. Joe was enthusiastic about some morning-effect
sketches he was doing in Central Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised,
and kissed at seven o'clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times seven o'clock when he
returned in the evening. At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, tri umphantly
tossed three five-dollar bills on the 8 by 10 (inches) centre table of the 8 by 10 (feet) flat parlour.
'Sometimes,' she said, a little wearily, 'Clementina tries me. I'm afraid she doesn't practise
enough, and I have to tell her the same things so often. And then she always dresses entirely in
white, and that does get monotonous. But General Pinkney is the dearest old man! I wish you
could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with Clementina at the piano - he is a
widower, you know - and stands there pulling his white goatee. "And how are the semiquavers
and the demi-semiquavers progressing?" he always asks. 'I wish you could see the wainscoting in
that drawing-room, Joe! And those Astrakhan rug portières. And Clementina has such a funny
little cough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting attached to her, she is
so gentle and high bred. General Pinkney's brother was once Minister to Bolivia.' And then Joe,
with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five, a two and a one - all legal tender notes -
and laid them beside Delia's earnings. 'Sold that water-colour of the obelisk to a man from
Peoria,' he announced overwhelmingly. 'Don't joke with me,' said Delia - 'not from Peoria!' 'All
the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen muffler and a quill toothpick.
He saw the sketch in Tinkle's window and thought it was a windmill at first. He was game,
though, and bought it anyhow. He ordered another - an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight
depot - to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in it.' 'I'm so glad you've
kept on,' said Delia heartily. 'You're bound to win, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so
much to spend before. We'll have oysters to-night.' 'And filet mignon with champignons,' said
Joe. 'Where is the olive fork?' On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread
his $18 on the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark paint from his
hands. Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless bundle of wraps and
bandages. 'How is this?' asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but not very joyously.
'Clementina,' she explained, 'insisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her lesson. She is such a queer
girl. Welsh rabbits at five in the afternoon. The General was there. You should have seen him run
for the chafing dish, Joe, just as if there wasn't a servant in the house. I know Clementina isn't in
good health; she is so nervous. In serving the rabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over
my hand and wrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But General Pinkney! -
Joe, that old man nearly went dis tracted. He rushed downstairs and sent somebody - they said
the furnace man or somebody in the basement - out to a drug store for some oil and things to
bind it up with. It doesn't hurt so much now.' 'What's this?' asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly
and pulling at some white strands beneath the bandages. 'It's something soft,' said Delia, 'that had
oil on it. Oh, Joe, did you sell another sketch?' She had seen the money on the table. 'Did I?' said
Joe. 'Just ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot to-day, and he isn't sure but he thinks he
wants another parkscape and a view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your
hand, Dele?' 'Five o'clock, I think,' said Dele plaintively. 'The iron - I mean the rabbit came off
the fire about that time. You ought to have seen General Pinkney, Joe, when - ' 'Sit down here a
moment, Dele,' said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat down beside her and put his arm across
her shoulders. 'What have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?' he asked. She braved it
for a moment or two with an eye full of love and stubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two
vaguely of General Pinkney; but at length down went her head and out came the truth and tears.
'I couldn't get any pupils,' she confessed. 'And I couldn't bear to have you give up your lessons;
and I got a place ironing shirts in that big Twenty-fourth Street laundry. And I think I did very
well to make up both General Pinkney and Clementina, don't you, Joe? And when a girl in the
laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all the way home making up that
story about the Welsh rabbit. You're not angry are you, Joe? And if I hadn't got the work you
mightn't have sold your sketches to that man from Peoria.' 'He wasn't from Peoria,' said Joe
slowly. 'Well, it doesn't matter where he was from. How clever you are, Joe - and - kiss me, Joe -
and what made you ever suspect that I wasn't giving music lessons to Clementina?' 'I didn't,' said
Joe, 'until to-night. And I wouldn't have then, only I sent up this cotton waste and oil from the
engine-room this afternoon for a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron.
I've been firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks.' 'And then you didn't - ' 'My
purchaser from Peoria,' said Joe, 'and General Pinkney are both creations of the same art - but
you wouldn't call it either painting or music. And then they both laughed, and Joe began: 'When
one loves one's Art no service seems - ' But Delia stopped him with her hand on his lips. 'No,' she
said 'just "When one loves." ' VI The Coming-out of Maggie EVERY SATURDAY NIGHT the
Clover Leaf Social Club gave a hop in the hall of the Give and Take Athletic Association on the
East Side. In order to attend one of these dances you must be a member of the Give and Take -
or, if you belong to the division that starts off with the right foot in waltzing, you must work in
Rhinegold's paper-box factory. Still, any Clover Leaf was privileged to escort or be escorted by
an outsider to a single dance. But mostly each Give and Take brought the paper-box girl that he
affected; and few strangers could boast of having shaken a foot at the regular hops. Maggie
Toole, on account of her dull eyes, broad mouth and left-handed style of footwork in the two-
step, went to the dances with Anna McCarty and her 'fellow.' Anna and Maggie worked side by
side in the factory, and were the greatest chums ever. So Anna always made Jimmy Burns take
her by Maggie's house every Saturday night so that her friend could go to the dance with them.
The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall of the association in
Orchard Street was fitted out with muscle making inventions. With the fibres thus builded up the
members were wont to engage the police and rival social and athletic organizations in joyous
combat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hops with the paper-box
factory girls came as a refining influence and as an efficient screen. For sometimes the tip went
'round, and if you were among the elect that tiptoed up the dark back stairway you might see as
neat and satisfying a little welter-weight affair to a finish as ever happened inside the ropes. On
Saturdays Rhinegold's paper-box factory closed at 3 p.m. On one such afternoon Anna and
Maggie walked homeward together. At Maggie's door Anna said, as usual: 'Be ready at seven,
sharp, Mag; and Jimmy and me'll come by for you.' But what was this? Instead of the customary
humble and grate ful thanks from the non-escorted one there was to be perceived a high-poised
head, a prideful dimpling at the corners of a broad mouth, and almost a sparkle in a dull brown
eye. 'Thanks, Anna,' said Maggie; 'but you and Jimmy needn't bother to-night. I've a gentleman
friend that's coming 'round to escort me to the hop.' The comely Anna pounced upon her friend,
shook her, chided and beseeched her. Maggie Toole catch a fellow! Plain, dear, loyal,
unattractive Maggie, so sweet as a chum, so unsought for a two-step or a moonlit bench in the
little park. How was it? When did it happen? Who was it? 'You'll see to-night,' said Maggie,
flushed with the wine of the first grapes she had gathered in Cupid's vineyard. 'He's swell all
right. He's two inches taller than Jimmy, and an up-to-date dresser. I'll introduce him, Anna, just
as soon as we get to the hall.' Anna and Jimmy were among the first Clover Leafs to arrive that
evening. Anna's eyes were brightly fixed upon the door of the hall to catch the first glimpse of
her friend's 'catch.' At 8.30 Miss Toole swept into the hall with her escort. Quickly her
triumphant eye discovered her chum under the wing of her faithful Jimmy. 'Oh, gee!' cried Anna,
'Mag ain't made a hit - oh, no! Swell fellow? Well, I guess! Style? Look at 'um.' 'Go as far as you
like,' said Jimmy, with sandpaper in his voice. 'Cop him out if you want him. These new guys
always win out with the push. Don't mind me. He don't squeeze all the limes, I guess. Huh!' 'Shut
up, Jimmy. You know what I mean. I'm glad for Mag. First fellow she ever had. Oh, here they
come.' Across the floor Maggie sailed like a coquettish yacht convoyed by a stately cruiser. And
truly, her companion justified the encomiums of the faithful chum. He stood two inches taller
than the average Give and Take athlete; his dark hair curled; his eyes and his teeth flashed
whenever he bestowed his frequent smiles. The young men of the Clover Leaf Club pinned not
their faith to the graces of person as much as they did to its prowess, its achievements in hand-to-
hand conflicts, and its preservation from the legal duress that constantly menaced it. The member
of the association who would bind a paper-box maiden to his conquering chariot scorned to
employ Beau Brummel airs. They were not considered honourable methods of warfare. The
swelling biceps, the coat straining at its buttons over the chest, the air of conscious conviction of
the super-eminence of the male in the cosmogony of creation, even a calm display of bow legs as
subduing and enchanting agents in the gentle tourneys of Cupid - these were the approved arms
and ammunition of the Clover Leaf gallants. They viewed, then, the genuflexions and alluring
poses of this visitor with their chins at a new angle. 'A friend of mine, Mr. Terry O'Sullivan,' was
Maggie's formula of introduction. She led him around the room, presenting him to each new-
arriving Clover Leaf. Almost was she pretty now, with the unique luminosity in her eyes that
comes to a girl with her first suitor and a kitten with its first mouse. 'Maggie Toole's got a fellow
at last,' was the word that went round among the paper-box girls. 'Pipe Mag's floor-walker' - thus
the Give and Takes expressed their indifferent contempt. Usually at the weekly hops Maggie kept
a spot on the wall warm with her back. She felt and showed so much gratitude whenever a self-
sacrificing partner invited her to dance that his pleasure was cheapened and diminished. She had
even grown used to noticing Anna joggle the reluctant Jimmy with her elbow as a signal for him
to invite her chum to walk over his feet through a two-step. But to-night the pumpkin had turned
to a coach and six. Terry O'Sullivan was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole
winged her first butterfly flight. And though our tropes of fairy land be mixed with those of
entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from the rose-crowned melody of Maggie's
one perfect night. The girls besieged her for introductions to her 'fellow.' The Clover Leaf young
men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms in Miss Toole. They flexed their
compelling muscles before her and bespoke her for the dance. Thus she scored; but to Terry
O'Sullivan the honours of the evening fell thick and fast. He shook his curls; he smiled and went
easily through the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before an open window
ten minutes each day. He danced like a faun; he introduced manner and style and atmosphere; his
words came trippingly upon his tongue, and - he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box
girl that Dempsey Donovan brought. Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress
suit, and could chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of 'Big Mike' O'Sullivan's
lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop dared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a
push-cart man's head or shot a member of the Heinrick B. Sweeney Outing and Literary
Association in the kneecap, an officer would drop around and say: 'The Cap'n'd like to see ye a
few minutes round to the office whin ye have time, Dempsey, me boy.' But there would be
sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains and black cigars; and somebody would tell a
funny story, and then Dempsey would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound dumb-
bells. So, doing a tight-rope act on a wire stretched across Niagara was a safe terpsichorean
performance compared with waltzing twice with Dempsey Donovan's paper box girl. At ten
o'clock the jolly round face of 'Big Mike' O'Sulli van shone at the door for five minutes upon the
scene. He always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the girls and handed out real perfectos to
the delighted boys. Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly. 'Big Mike'
looked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed. The music stopped. The
dancers scattered to the chairs along the walls. Terry O'Sullivan, with his entrancing bow,
relinquished a pretty girl in blue to her partner and started back to find Maggie. Dempsey
intercepted him in the middle of the floor. Some fine instinct that Rome must have bequeathed to
us caused nearly every one to turn and look at them - there was a subtle feeling that two
gladiators had met in the arena. Two or three Give and Takes with tight coat-sleeves drew nearer.
'One moment, Mr. O'Sullivan,' said Dempsey. 'I hope you're enjoying yourself. Where did you
say you lived? The two gladiators were well matched. Dempsey had, perhaps, ten pounds of
weight to give away. The O'Sullivan had breadth with quickness. Dempsey had a glacial eye, a
dominating slit of a mouth, an indestructible jaw, a complexion like a belle's and the coolness of
a champion. The visitor showed more fire in his con tempt and less control over his conspicuous
sneer. They were ene mies by the law written when the rocks were molten. They were each too
splendid, too mighty, too incomparable to divide pre eminence. One only must survive. 'I live on
Grand,' said O'Sullivan insolently; 'and no trouble to find me at home. Where do you live?'
Dempsey ignored the question. 'You say your name's O'Sullivan,' he went on. 'Well, "Big Mike"
says he never saw you before.' 'Lots of things he never saw,' said the favourite of the hop. 'As a
rule,' went on Dempsey, huskily sweet, 'O'Sullivans in this district know one another. You
escorted one of our lady members here, and we want a chance to make good. If you've got a
family tree let's see a few historical O'Sullivan buds come out on it. Or do you want us to dig it
out of you by the roots?' 'Suppose you mind your own business,' suggested O'Sullivan blandly.
Dempsey's eyes brightened. He held up an inspired forefinger as though a brilliant idea had
struck him. 'I've got it now,' he said cordially. 'It was just a little mistake. You ain't no O'Sullivan.
You are a ring-tailed monkey. Excuse us for not recognizing you at first.' O'Sullivan's eye
flashed. He made a quick movement, but Andy Geoghan was ready and caught his arm.
Dempsey nodded at Andy and William McMahan, the secretary of the club, and walked rapidly
toward a door at the rear of the hall. Two other members of the Give and Take Association
swiftly joined the little group. Terry O'Sullivan was now in the hands of the Board of Rules and
Social Referees. They spoke to him briefly and softly, and conducted him out through the same
door at the rear. This movement on the part of the Clover Leaf members requires a word of
elucidation. Back of the association hall was a smaller room rented by the club. In this room
personal difficulties that arose on the ballroom floor were settled, man to man, with the weapons
of nature, under the supervision of the Board. No lady could say that she had witnessed a fight at
a Clover Leaf hop in several years. Its gentlemen members guaranteed that. So easily and
smoothly had Dempsey and the Board done their preliminary work that many in the hall had not
noticed the check ing of the fascinating O'Sullivan's social triumph. Among these was Maggie.
She looked about for her escort. 'Smoke up!' said Rose Cassidy. 'Wasn't you on? Demps Dono
van picked a scrap with your Lizzie-boy, and they've waltzed out to the slaughter-room with him.
How's my hair look done up this way, Mag?' Maggie laid a hand on the bosom of her cheesecloth
waist. 'Gone to fight with Dempsey!' she said breathlessly. 'They've got to be stopped. Dempsey
Donovan can't fight him. Why, he'll he'll kill him!' 'Ah, what do you care?' said Rosa. 'Don't
some of 'em fight every hop?' But Maggie was off, darting her zigzag way through the maze of
dancers. She burst through the rear door into the dark hall and then threw her solid shoulder
against the door of the room of single combat. It gave way, and in the instant that she entered her
eye caught the scene - the Board standing about with open watches; Dempsey Donovan in his
shirt-sleeves dancing, light footed, with the wary grace of the modern pugilist, within easy reach
of his adversary; Terry O'Sullivan standing with arm folded and a murderous look in his dark
eyes. And without slacking the speed of her entrance she leaped forward with a scream - leaped
in time to catch and hang upon the arm of O'Sullivan that was suddenly uplifted, and to whisk
from it the long, bright stiletto that he had drawn from his bosom. The knife fell and rang upon
the floor. Cold steel drawn in the rooms of the Give and Take Association! Such a thing had
never happened before. Every one stood motionless for a minute. Andy Geoghan kicked the
stiletto with the toe of his shoe curiously, like an antiquarian who has come upon some ancient
weapon unknown to his learning. And then O'Sullivan hissed something unintelligible between
his teeth. Dempsey and the Board exchanged looks. And then Dempsey looked at O'Sullivan
without anger as one looks at a stray dog, and nodded his head in the direction of the door. 'The
back stairs, Giuseppi,' he said briefly. 'Somebody'll pitch your hat down after you.' Maggie
walked up to Dempsey Donovan. There was a brilliant spot of red in her cheeks, down which
slow tears were running. But she looked him bravely in the eye. 'I knew it, Dempsey,' she said, as
her eyes grew dull even in their tears. 'I knew he was a Guinea. His name's Tony Spinelli. I
hurried in when they told me you and him was scrappin'. Them Guineas always carries knives.
But you don't understand, Dempsey. I never had a fellow in my life. I got tired of comin' with
Anna and Jimmy every night, so I fixed it with him to call himself O'Sullivan, and brought him
along. I knew there'd be nothin' doin' for him if he came as a Dago. I guess I'll resign from the
club now.' Dempsey turned to Andy Geoghan. 'Chuck that cheese slicer out of the window,' he
said, 'and tell 'em inside that Mr. O'Sullivan has had a telephone message to go down to
Tammany Hall.' And then he turned back to Maggie. 'Say, Mag,' he said, 'I'll see you home. And
how about next Saturday night? Will you come to the hop with me if I call around for you?' It
was remarkable how quickly Maggie's eyes could change from dull to a shining brown. 'With
you, Dempsey?' she stammered. 'Say - will a duck swim?' VII The Cop and the Anthem ON HIS
BENCH IN MADISON SQUARE Soapy moved uneasily. When wild goose honk high of nights,
and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves
uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand. A dead leaf fell in
Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square,
and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to
the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may
make ready. Soapy's mind became cognizant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve
himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And
therefore he moved uneasily on his bench. The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the
highest. In them were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies or
drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months
of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to
Soapy the essence of things desirable. For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter
quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach
and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira
to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers,
distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he
slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed large
and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's
dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an
endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive
lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of
charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit
received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have
its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition.
Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which, though conducted by rules, does not
meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at
once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The
pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring
insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating
magistrate would do the rest. Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the
level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together, Up Broadway he turned,
and halted at a glittering café, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the
grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm. Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button
of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-
in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach
a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show
above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought
Soapy, would be about the thing - with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse
and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call
forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the café management; and yet the meat would
leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge. But as Soapy set foot inside the
restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and
ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted
the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard. Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to
the coveted Island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be
thought of. At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly dis played wares behind
plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through
the glass. People came running round the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with
his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. 'Where's the man that done
that?' inquired the officer excitedly. 'Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do
with it?' said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune. The
policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not
remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half
way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with
disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful. On the opposite side of the street was a
restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery
and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive
shoes and tell-tale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flap
jacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter he betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and
himself were strangers. 'Now, get busy and call a cop,' said Soapy. 'And don't keep a gentleman
waiting.' 'No cop for youse,' said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the
cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. 'Hey, Con!' Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two
waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from
his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who
stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street. Five blocks
Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the
opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a 'cinch.' A young woman of a modest
and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its
display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of
severe demeanour leaned against a water-plug. It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the
despicable and execrated 'masher.' The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the
contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the
pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would ensure his winter quarters on the right little, tight
little isle. Soapy straightened the lady missionary's ready-made tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs
into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at
her, was taken with sudden coughs and 'hems,' smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the
impudent and contemptible litany of the 'masher.' With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman
was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her
absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised
his hat and said: 'Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?' The
policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy
would be practically enroute for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cosy
warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught
Soapy's coat-sleeve. 'Sure, Mike,' she said joyfully, 'if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have
spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.' With the young woman playing the clinging ivy
to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman, overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to
liberty. At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by
night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos. Women in furs and men in
greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful
enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it,
and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre
he caught at the immediate straw of 'disorderly conduct.' On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell
drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise
disturbed the welkin. The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a
citizen: ' 'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College.
Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be.' Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his
unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an
unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind. In a cigar store he saw
a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door
on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The
man at the cigar light followed hastily. 'My umbrella,' he said sternly. 'Oh, is it?' sneered Soapy,
adding insult to petit larceny. 'Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella!
Why don't you call a cop? There stands one at the corner.' The umbrella owner slowed his steps.
Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman
looked at the two curiously. 'Of course,' said the umbrella man - 'that is - well, you know how
these mistakes occur - I - if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me - I picked it up this
morning in a restaurant - If you recognize it as yours, why - I hope you'll - ' 'Of course it's mine,'
said Soapy viciously. The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall
blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks
away. Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the
umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and
carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king
who could do no wrong. At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter
and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing
instinct survives even when the home is a park bench. But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy
came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one
violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys,
making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears
sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence. The
moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered
sleepily in the eaves - for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the
anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the
days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and
immaculate thoughts and collars. The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the
influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed
with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead
hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence. And also in a moment his
heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him
to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of
himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he
was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them
without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow
he would go into the roaring down-town district and find work. A fur importer had once offered
him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be
somebody in the world. He would Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around
into the broad face of a policeman. 'What are you doin' here?' asked the officer. 'Nothin',' said
Soapy. 'Then come along,' said the policeman. 'Three months on the Island,' said the Magistrate
in the Police Court the next morning. VIII Memoirs of a Yellow Dog I DON'T SUPPOSE it will
knock any of you people off your perch to read a contribution from an animal. Mr. Kipling and a
good many others have demonstrated the fact that animals can express themselves in
remunerative English, and no magazine goes to press nowadays without an animal story in it,
except the old-style monthlies that are still running pictures of Bryan and the Mont Pelée horror.
But you needn't look for any stuck-up literature in my piece, such as Bearoo, the bear, and
Snakoo, the snake, and Tammanoo, the tiger, talk in the jungle books. A yellow dog that's spent
most of his life in a cheap New York flat, sleeping in a corner on an old sateen underskirt (the
one she spilled port wine on at the Lady Longshoremen's banquet), mustn't be expected to
perform any tricks with the art of speech. I was born a yellow pup; date, locality, pedigree and
weight unknown. The first thing I can recollect, an old woman had me in a basket at Broadway
and Twenty-third trying to sell me to a fat lady. Old Mother Hubbard was boosting me to beat the
band as a genuine Pomeranian-Hambletonian-Red-Irish-Cochin-China Stoke-Pogis fox terrier.
The fat lady chased a V around among the samples of gros grain flannelette in her shopping-bag
till she cor nered it, and gave up. From that moment I was a pet - a mamma's own wootsey
squidlums. Say, gentle reader, did you ever have a 200-pound woman breathing a flavour of
Camembert cheese and Peau d'Espagne pick you up and wallop her nose all over you, remarking
all the time in an Emma Eames tone of voice: 'Oh, oo's um oodlum, doodlum, woodlum,
toodlum, bitsy-witsy skoodlums?' From a pedigreed yellow pup I grew up to be an anonymous
yellow cur looking like a cross between an Angora cat and a box of lemons. But my mistress
never tumbled. She thought that the two primeval pups that Noah chased into the ark were but a
collateral branch of my ancestors. It took two policemen to keep her from entering me at the
Madison Square Garden for the Siberian bloodhound prize. I'll tell you about that flat. The house
was the ordinary thing in New York, paved with Parian marble in the entrance hall and
cobblestones above the first floor. Our flat was three fl - well, not flights - climbs up. My
mistress rented it unfurnished, and put in the regular things - 1903 antique upholstered parlour
set, oil chromo of geishas in a Harlem tea-house, rubber plant and husband. By Sirius! there was
a biped I felt sorry for. He was a little man with sandy hair and whiskers a good deal like mine.
Hen-pecked? - well, toucans and flamingoes and pelicans all had their bills in him. He wiped the
dishes and listened to my mistress tell about the cheap, ragged things the lady with the squirrel-
skin coat on the second floor hung out on her line to dry. And every evening while she was
getting supper she made him take me out on the end of a string for a walk. If men knew how
women pass the time when they are alone they'd never marry. Laura Lean Jibbey, peanut brittle,
a little almond cream on the neck muscles, dishes unwashed, half an hour's talk with the iceman,
reading a package of old letters, a couple of pickles and two bottles of malt extract, one hour
peeking through a hole in the window shade into the flat across the air shaft - that's about all
there is to it. Twenty minutes before time for him to come home from work she straightens up the
house, fixes her rat so it won't show, and gets out a lot of sewing for a ten-minute bluff. I led a
dog's life in that flat. 'Most all day I lay there in my corner watching the fat woman kill time. I
slept sometimes and had pipe dreams about being out chasing cats into basements and growling
at old ladies with black mittens, as a dog was intended to do. Then she would pounce upon me
with a lot of that drivelling poodle palaver and kiss me on the nose - but what could I do? A dog
can't chew cloves. I began to feel sorry for Hubby, dog my cats if I didn't. We looked so much
alike that people noticed it when we went out; so we shook the streets that Morgan's cab drives
down, and took to climbing the piles of last December's snow on the streets where cheap people
live. One evening when we were thus promenading, and I was trying to look like a prize St.
Bernard, and the old man was trying to look like he wouldn't have murdered the. first organ-
grinder he heard play Mendelssohn's wedding-march, I looked up at him and said, in my way:
'What are you looking so sour about, you oakum trimmed lobster? She don't kiss you. You don't
have to sit on her lap and listen to talk that would make the book of a musical comedy sound like
the maxims of Epictetus. You ought to be thankful you're not a dog. Brace up, Benedick, and bid
the blues begone.' The matrimonial mishap looked down at me with almost canine intelligence in
his face. 'Why, doggie,' says he, 'good doggie. You almost look like you could speak. What is it,
doggie - Cats?' Cats! Could speak! But, of course, he couldn't understand. Humans were denied
the speech of animals. The only common ground of communication upon which dogs and men
can get together is in fiction. In the flat across the hall from us lived a lady with a black-and tan
terrier. Her husband strung it and took it out every evening, but he always came home cheerful
and whistling. One day I touched noses with the black-and-tan in the hall, and I struck him for an
elucidation. 'See, here, Wiggle-and-Skip,' I says, 'you know that it ain't the nature of a real man to
play dry-nurse to a dog in public. I never saw one leashed to a bow-wow yet that didn't look like
he'd like to lick every other man that looked at him. But your boss comes in every day as perky
and set up as an amateur prestidigitator doing the egg trick. How does he do it? Don't tell me he
likes it.' 'Him?' says the black-and-tan. 'Why, he uses Nature's Own Remedy. He gets spifflicated.
At first when we go out he's as shy as the man on the steamer who would rather play pedro when
they make 'em all jackpots. By the time we've been in eight saloons he don't care whether the
thing on the end of his line is a dog or a catfish. I've lost two inches of my tail trying to sidestep
those swinging doors.' The pointer I got from that terrier - vaudeville please copy - set me to
thinking. One evening about six o'clock my mistress ordered him to get busy and do the ozone
act for Lovey. I have concealed it until now, but that is what she called me. The black-and-tan
was called 'Tweetness.' I consider that I have the bulge on him as far as you could chase a rabbit.
Still 'Lovey' is something of a nomenclatural tin-can on the tail of one's self-respect. At a quiet
place on a safe street I tightened the line of my custo dian in front of an attractive, refined saloon.
I made a dead-ahead scramble for the doors, whining like a dog in the press despatches that lets
the family know that little Alice is bogged while gathering lilies in the brook. 'Why, darn my
eyes,' says the old man, with a grin; 'darn my eyes if the saffron-coloured son of a seltzer
lemonade ain't asking me in to take a drink. Lemme see - how long's it been since I saved shoe
leather by keeping one foot on the footrest? I believe I'll - ' I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he
took, sitting at a table. For an hour he kept the Campbells coming. I sat by his side rapping for
the waiter with my tail, and eating free lunch such as mamma in her flat never equalled with her
homemade truck bought at a delicatessen store eight minutes before papa comes home. When the
products of Scotland were all exhausted except the rye bread the old man unwound me from the
table leg and played me outside like a fisherman plays a salmon. Out there he took off my collar
and threw it into the street. 'Poor doggie,' says he; 'good doggie. She shan't kiss you any more. 'S
a darned shame. Good doggie, go away and get run over by a street car and be happy.' I refused
to leave. I leaped and frisked around the old man's legs happy as a pug on a rug. 'You old flea-
headed woodchuck-chaser,' I said to him - 'you moon-baying, rabbit-pointing, egg-stealing old
beagle, can't you see that I don't want to leave you? Can't you see that we're both Pups in the
Wood and the missis is the cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me with the flea
liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Why not cut that all out and be pards for evermore?'
Maybe you'll say he didn't understand - maybe he didn't. But he kind of got a grip on the Hot
Scotches, and stood still for a minute, thinking. 'Doggie,' says he finally, 'we don't live more than
a dozen lives on this earth, and very few of us live to be more than 300. If I ever see that flat any
more I'm a flat, and if you do you're flatter; and that's no flattery. I'm offering 60 to 1 that
Westward Ho wins out by the length of a dachshund.' There was no string, but I frolicked along
with my master to the Twenty-third Street ferry. And the cats on the route saw reason to give
thanks that prehensile claws had been given them. On the Jersey side my master said to a
stranger who stood eating a currant bun: 'Me and my doggie, we are bound for the Rocky
Mountains.' But what pleased me most was when my old man pulled both of my ears until I
howled, and said: 'You common, monkey-headed, rat-tailed, sulphur-coloured son of a door-mat,
do you know what I'm going to call you?' I thought of 'Lovey,' and I whined dolefully. 'I'm going
to call you "Pete," ' says my master; and if I'd had five tails I couldn't have done enough wagging
to do justice to the occasion. IX The Love-philtre of Ikey Schoenstein THE BLUE LIGHT
DRUG STORE is down-town, between the Bowery and First Avenue, where the distance
between the two streets is the shortest. The Blue Light does not consider that pharmacy is a thing
of bric-a-brac, scent and ice-cream soda. If you ask it for a pain-killer it will not give you a
bonbon. The Blue Light scorns the labour-saving arts of modern phar macy. It macerates its
opium and percolates its own laudanum and paregoric. To this day pills are made behind its tall
prescription desk - pills rolled out on its own pill-tile, divided with a spatula, rolled with the
finger and thumb, dusted with calcined magnesia and delivered in little round, pasteboard pill-
boxes. The store is on a corner about which coveys of ragged-plumed, hilarious children play and
become candidates for the cough-drops and soothing syrups that wait for them inside. Ikey
Schoenstein was the night clerk of the Blue Light and the friend of his customers. Thus it is on
the East Side, where the heart of pharmacy is not glacé. There, as it should be, the druggist is a
counsellor, a confessor, an adviser, an able and willing mis sionary and mentor whose learning is
respected, whose occult wisdom is venerated and whose medicine is often poured, untasted, into
the gutter. Therefore Ikey's corniform, bespecta cled nose and narrow, knowledge-bowed figure
was well known in the vicinity of the Blue Light, and his advice and notice were much desired.
Ikey roomed and breakfasted at Mrs. Riddle's, two squares away. Mrs. Riddle had a daughter
named Rosy. The circumlocu tion has been in vain - you must have guessed it - Ikey adored
Rosy. She tinctured all his thoughts; she was the compound extract of all that was chemically
pure and officinal - the dispen satory contained nothing equal to her. But Ikey was timid, and his
hopes remained insoluble in the menstruum of his backwardness and fears. Behind his counter he
was a superior being, calmly conscious of special knowledge and worth; outside, he was a weak-
kneed, purblind, motorman-cursed rambler, with ill-fitting clothes stained with chemicals and
smelling of socotrine aloes and valerianate of ammonia. The fly in Ikey's ointment (thrice
welcome, pat trope!) was Chunk McGowan. Mr. McGowan was also striving to catch the bright
smiles tossed about by Rosy. But he was no out-fielder as Ikey was; he picked them off the bat.
At the same time he was Ikey's friend and customer, and often dropped in at the Blue Light Drug
Store to have a bruise painted with iodine or get a cut rubber-plastered after a pleasant evening
spent along the Bowery. One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent, easy way, and sat,
comely, smoothed-faced, hard, indomitable, good-natured, upon a stool. 'Ikey,' said he, when his
friend had fetched his mortar and sat opposite, grinding gum benzoin to a powder, 'get busy with
your ear. It's drugs for me if you've got the line I need.' Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr.
McGowan for the usual evidences of conflict, but found none. 'Take your coat off,' he ordered. 'I
guess already that you have been stuck in the ribs with a knife. I have many times told you those
Dagoes would do you up.' Mr. McGowan smiled. 'Not them,' he said. 'Not any Dagoes. But
you've located the diagnosis all right enough - it's under my coat, near the ribs. Say! Ikey - Rosy
and me are goin' to run away and get married to-night.' Ikey's left forefinger was doubled over
the edge of the mortar, holding it steady. He gave it a wild rap with the pestle, but felt it not.
Meanwhile Mr. McGowan's smile faded to a look of perplexed gloom. 'That is,' he continued, 'if
she keeps in the notion until the time comes. We've been layin' pipes for the gateway for two
weeks. One day she says she will; the same evenin' she says nixy. We've agreed on to-night, and
Rosy's stuck to the affirmative this time for two whole days. But it's five hours yet till the time,
and I'm afraid she'll stand me up when it comes to the scratch.' 'You said you wanted drugs,'
remarked Ikey. Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed - a condition opposed to his usual
line of demeanour. He made a patent-medi cine almanac into a roll and fitted it with unprofitable
carefulness about his finger. 'I wouldn't have this double handicap make a false start to-night for
a million,' he said. 'I've got a little flat up in Harlem all ready, with chrysanthemums on the table
and a kettle ready to boil. And I've engaged a pulpit pounder to be ready at his house for us at
9.30. It's got to come off. And if Rosy don't change her mind again!' - Mr. McGowan ceased, a
prey to his doubts. 'I don't see then yet,' said Ikey shortly, 'what makes it that you talk of drugs, or
what I can be doing about it.' 'Old man Riddle don't like me a little bit,' went on the uneasy
suitor, bent upon marshalling his arguments. 'For a week he hasn't let Rosy step outside the door
with me. If it wasn't for losin' a boarder they'd have bounced me long ago. I'm makin' $20 a week
and she'll never regret flyin' the coop with Chunk McGowan.' 'You will excuse me, Chunk,' said
Ikey. 'I must make a prescription that is to be called for soon.' 'Say,' said McGowan, looking up
suddenly, 'say, Ikey, ain't there a drug of some kind - some kind of powders that'll make a girl
like you better if you give 'em to her?' Ikey's lip beneath his nose curled with the scorn of
superior enlightenment; but before he could answer, McGowan continued: 'Tim Lacy told me
once that he got some from a croaker up town and fed 'em to his girl in soda water. From the
very first dose he was ace-high and everybody else looked like thirty cents to her. They was
married in less than two weeks.' Strong and simple was Chunk McGowan. A better reader of men
than Ikey was could have seen that his tough frame was strung upon fine wires. Like a good
general who was about to invade the enemy's territory he was seeking to guard every point
against possible failure. 'I thought,' went on Chunk hopefully, 'that if I had one of them powders
to give Rosy when I see her at supper to-night it might brace her up and keep her from reneging
on the proposition to skip. I guess she don't need a mule team to drag her away, but women are
better at coaching than they are at running bases. If the stuff'll work just for a couple of hours it'll
do the trick.' 'When is this foolishness of running away to be happening?' asked Ikey. 'Nine
o'clock,' said Mr. McGowan. 'Supper's at seven. At eight Rosy goes to bed with a headache. At
nine old Parvenzano lets me through to his backyard, where there's a board off Riddle's fence,
next door. I go under her window and help her down the fire escape. We've got to make it early
on the preacher's account. It's all dead easy if Rosy don't balk when the flag drops. Can you fix
me one of them powders, Ikey?' Ikey Schoenstein rubbed his nose slowly. 'Chunk,' said he, 'it is
of drugs of that nature that pharma ceutists must have much carefulness. To you alone of my
acquain tance would I entrust a powder like that. But for you I shall make it, and you shall see
how it makes Rosy to think of you.' Ikey went behind the prescription desk. There he crushed to
a powder two soluble tablets, each containing a quarter of a grain of morphia. To them he added
a little sugar of milk to increase the bulk, and folded the mixture neatly in a white paper. Taken
by an adult this powder would ensure several hours of heavy slumber without danger to the
sleeper. This he handed to Chunk McGowan, telling him to administer it in a liquid, if possible,
and received the hearty thanks of the backyard Lochinvar. The subtlety of Ikey's action becomes
apparent upon recital of his subsequent move. He sent a messenger for Mr. Riddle and dis closed
the plans of McGowan for eloping with Rosy. Mr. Riddle was a stout man, brick-dusty of
complexion and sudden in action. 'Much obliged,' he said briefly to Ikey. 'The lazy Irish loafer!
My own room's just above Rosy's, I'll just go up there myself after supper and load the shot-gun
and wait. If he comes in my back yard he'll go away in an ambulance instead of a bridal chaise.'
With Rosy held in the clutches of Morpheus for a many hours' deep slumber, and the bloodthirsty
parent waiting, armed and forewarned, Ikey felt that his rival was close, indeed, upon
discomfiture. All night in the Blue Light Store he waited at his duties for chance news of the
tragedy, but none came. At eight o'clock in the morning the day clerk arrived and Ikey started
hurriedly for Mrs. Riddle's to learn the outcome. And, lo! as he stepped out of the store who but
Chunk McGowan sprang from a passing street-car and grasped his hand - Chunk McGowan with
a victor's smile and flushed with joy. 'Pulled it off,' said Chunk with Elysium in his grin. 'Rosy hit
the fire-escape on time to a second and we was under the wire at the Reverend's at 9.30 1/4 .
She's up at the flat - she cooked eggs this mornin' in a blue kimono - Lord! how lucky I am! You
must pace up some day, Ikey, and feed with us. I've got a job down near the bridge, and that's
where I'm heading for now.' 'The - the powder?' stammered Ikey. 'Oh, that stuff you gave me!'
said Chunk broadening his grin; 'well, it was this way. I sat down at the supper table last night at
Riddle's, and I looked at Rosy, and I says to myself, "Chunk, if you get the girl get her on the
square - don't try any hocus-pocus with a thoroughbred like her." And I keeps the paper you give
me in my pocket. And then my lamps falls on another party present, who, I says to myself, is
failin' in a proper affection toward his comin' son-in-law, so I watches my chance and dumps that
powder in old man Riddle's coffee - see?' ' XVI The Furnished Room RESTLESS, SHIFTING,
FUGACIOUS as time itself, is a certain vast bulk of the population of the redbrick district of the
lower West Side. Homeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to
furnished room, transients for ever - transients in abode, transients in heart and mind. They sing
'Home Sweet Home' in ragtime; they carry their lares et penates in a bandbox; their vine is
entwined about a picture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. Hence the houses of this district,
having had a thousand dwellers, should have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt;
but it would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the wake of all these vagrant
ghosts. One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red mansions,
ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean hand-baggage upon the step and wiped the
dust from his hat-band and forehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote,
hollow depths. To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a housekeeper
who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that had eaten its nut to a hollow shell
and now sought to fill the vacancy with edible lodgers. He asked if there was a room to let.
'Come in,' said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her throat seemed lined with
fur. 'I have the third floor back, vacant since a week back. Should you wish to look at it?' The
young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no particular source mitigated the
hshadows of the halls. They trod noiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have for
sworn. It seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank, sunless air to lush
lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to the staircase and was viscid under the foot like
organic matter. At each turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants had once
been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and tainted air. It may be that statues of the
saints had stood there, but it was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them
forth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished pit below. 'This is the
room,' said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. 'It's a nice room. It ain't often vacant. I had
some most elegant people in it last summer - no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute.
The water's at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney-kept it three months. They done a
vaudeville sketch. Miss B'retta Sprowls - you may have heard of her - Oh, that was just the stage
names - right there over the dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is
here, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It's a room everybody likes. It never stays idle
long.' 'Do you have many theatrical people rooming here?' asked the young man. 'They comes
and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with the theatres. Yes, sir, this is the
theatrical district. Actor people never stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and
they goes.' He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he said, and would
take possession at once. He counted out the money. The room had been made ready, she said,
even to towels and water. As the housekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the
question that he carried at the end of his tongue. 'A young girl - Miss Vashner - Miss Eloise
Vashner - do you remember such a one among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage,
most likely. A fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish gold hair and a dark mole
near her left eyebrow.' 'No, I don't remember the name. Them stage people has names they
change as often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don't call that one to mind.' No.
Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the inevitable negative. So much time
spent by day in questioning managers, agents, schools and choruses; by night among the
audiences of theatres from all-star casts down to music-halls so low that he dreaded to find what
he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find her. He was sure that since her
disappearance from home this great water-girt city held her some where, but it was like a
monstrous quicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its upper granules of
to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime. The furnished room received its latest guest with a
first glow of pseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the specious smile
of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected gleams from the decayed furniture, the
ragged brocade upholstery of a couch and two chairs, a footwide cheap pier glass between the
two windows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a corner. The guest
reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, con fused in speech as though it were an apartment
in Babel, tried to discourse to him of its divers tenantry. A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-
flowered, rectangular, tropical islet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the
gay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from house to house - The
Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding Breakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The
mantel's chastely severe outline was ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly
askew like the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate flotsam cast aside by
the room's marooned when a lucky sail had borne them to a fresh port - a trifling vase or two,
pictures of actresses, a medicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck. One by one, as the
characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the little signs left by the furnished room's
procession of guests developed a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of the
dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny finger-prints on the wall spoke
of little prisoners trying to feel their way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the shadow
of a bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had splintered with its contents
against the wall. Across the pier glass had been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the
name 'Marie.' It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished room had turned in fury -
perhaps tempted beyond for bearance by its garish coldness - and wreaked upon it their passions.
The furniture was chipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a
horrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some grotesque convulsion. Some more
potent upheaval had cloven a great slice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned
its particular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It seemed incredible that
all this malice and injury had been wrought upon the room by those who had called it for a time
their home; and yet it may have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the resentful
rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A hut that is our own we can sweep and
adorn and cherish. The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file, soft-shod,
through his mind, while there drifted into the room furnished sounds and furnished scents. He
heard in one room a tittering and incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold,
the rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a banjo tinkled with spirit. Doors
banged somewhere; the elevated trains roared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back
fence. And he breathed the breath of the house - a dank savour rather than a smell - a cold, musty
effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the reeking exhalations of linoleum and
mildewed and rotten woodwork. Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the
strong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of wind with such sureness
and fragrance and emphasis that it almost seemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud,
'What, dear?' as if he had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung to
him and wrapped him about. He reached out his arms for it, all his senses for the time confused
and commin gled. How could one be peremptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been
a sound. But, was it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him? 'She has been in this
room,' he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a token, for he knew he would recognize the
smallest thing that had belonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of
mignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own - whence came it? The room had
been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the flimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen
hairpins - those discreet, indistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of
mood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their triumphant lack of
identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he came upon a discarded, tiny, ragged
handkerchief. He pressed it to his face. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to
the floor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a pawnbroker's card, two
lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of dreams. In the last was a woman's black satin
hair-bow, which halted him, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hair-bow also is
feminin ity's demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales. And then he traversed
the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the walls, considering the corners of the bulging
mat ting on his hands and knees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the
drunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign unable to perceive that she was there beside,
around, against, within, above him, clinging to him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly
through the finer senses that even his grosser ones became cognizant of the call. Once again he
answered loudly, 'Yes, dear!' and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on vacancy, for he could not yet
discern form and colour and love and outstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. Oh, God!
whence that odour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped. He
burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes. These he passed in passive
contempt. But once he found in a fold of the matting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground
beneath his heel with a green and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found
dreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of her whom he sought, and
who may have lodged there, and whose spirit seemed to hover there, he found no trace. And then
he thought of the housekeeper. He ran from the haunted room downstairs and to a door that
showed a crack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement as best he
could. 'Will you tell me, madam,' he besought her, 'who occupied the room I have before I came?'
'Yes, sir. I can tell you again. 'Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said. Miss B'retta Sprowls it was
in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was. My house is well known for respectability. The
marriage certificate hung, framed, on a nail over - ' 'What kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls - in
looks, I mean?' 'Why, black-haired, sir, short and stout, with a comical face. They left a week ago
Tuesday.' 'And before they occupied it?' 'Why, there was a single gentleman connected with the
draying business. He left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two
children, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle, whose sons paid for him.
He kept the room six months. That goes back a year, sir, and further I do not remember.' He
thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The essence that had vivified it was
gone. The perfume of mignonette had departed. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy
house furniture, of atmosphere in storage. The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring
at the yellow, singing gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the sheets into strips.
With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly into every crevice around windows and door.
When all was snug and taut he turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself
gratefully upon the bed. • • • • • It was Mrs. McCool's night to go with the can for beer. So she
fetched it and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where housekeepers
foregather and the worm dieth seldom. 'I rented out my third floor back, this evening,' said Mrs.
Purdy, across a fine circle of foam. 'A young man took it. He went up to bed two hours ago.
'Now, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am?' said Mrs. McCool, with intense admiration. 'You do be a
wonder for rentin' rooms of that kind. And did ye tell him, then?' she concluded in a husky
whisper, laden with mystery. 'Rooms,' said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, 'are furnished for to
rent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool.' ' 'Tis right ye are, ma'am; 'tis by renting rooms we kape
alive. Ye have the rale sense for business, ma'am. There be many people will rayjict the rentin' of
a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin' in the bed of it.' 'As you say, we has our
living to be making,' remarked Mrs, Purdy. 'Yis, ma'am; 'tis true. 'Tis just one wake ago this day I
helped ye lay out the third floor back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be killin' herself wid
the gas a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy, ma'am.' 'She'd a-been called handsome, as you
say,' said Mrs. Purdy, assenting but critical, 'but for that mole she had a-growin' by her left
eyebrow. Do fill up your glass again, Mrs. McCool.' XXXIII The Last Leaf IN A LITTLE
DISTRICT west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into
small strips called 'places.' These 'places' make strange angles and curves. One street crosses
itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a
collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet
himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich
Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century
gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish
or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a 'colony.' At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue
and Johnsy had their studio. 'Johnsy' was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine, the other
from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street 'Delmonico's,' and found
their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.
That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia,
stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy finger. Over on the East Side
this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the
maze of the narrow and moss-grown 'places.' Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a
chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by Californian zephyrs was
hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay,
scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at
the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway
with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. 'She has one chance in - let us say, ten,' he said, as he shook down
the mercury in his clinical thermometer. 'And that chance is for her to want to live. This way
people have of lining-up on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopœia look silly.
Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her
mind?' 'She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day,' said Sue. 'Paint? - bosh! Has she
anything on her mind worth thinking about twice - a man, for instance?' 'A man?' said Sue, with a
jews'-harp twang in her voice. 'Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.'
'Well, it is the weakness, then,' said the doctor. 'I will do all that science, so far as it may filter
through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her
funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get
her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-
five chance for her, instead of one in ten.' After the doctor had gone, Sue went into the workroom
and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing-
board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her
face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board
and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their
way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to
Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle on
the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went
quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and
counting - counting backward. 'Twelve,' she said, and a little later, 'eleven'; and then 'ten,' and
'nine'; and then 'eight' and 'seven,' almost together. Sue looked solicitously out the window. What
was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick
house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half-way
up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its
skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. 'What is it, dear?' asked Sue. 'Six,'
said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. 'They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a
hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There
are only five left now.' 'Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie.' 'Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last
one falls I must go too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?' 'Oh, I never
heard of such nonsense,' complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. 'What have old ivy leaves to
do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a
goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were -
let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a
chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street-cars or walk past a new building. Try
to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with
it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self.' 'You needn't get any
more wine,' said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. 'There goes another. No, I don't
want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll
go too.' 'Johnsy, dear,' said Sue, bending over her, 'will you promise me to keep your eyes closed,
and not look out of the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-
morrow. I need the light or I would draw the shade down.' 'Couldn't you draw in the other room?'
asked Johnsy coldly. 'I'd rather be here by you,' said Sue. 'Besides, I don't want you to keep
looking at those silly ivy leaves.' 'Tell me as soon as you have finished,' said Johnsy, closing her
eyes, and lying white and still as a fallen statue, 'because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired
of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing
down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves.' 'Try to sleep,' said Sue. 'I must call
Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move
till I come back.' Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He
was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr
along the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush
without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mis tress's robe. He had been always about
to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing
except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving
as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He
drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little
old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in anyone, and who regarded himself as especial
mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman
smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly-lighted den below. In one corner was a blank
canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the
masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and
fragile as a leaf herself, float away when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old
Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic
imaginings. 'Vass!' he cried. 'Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs
dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I vill not bose as a
model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der prain
of her? Ach, dot poor little Miss Yohnsy.' 'She is very ill arid weak,' said Sue, 'and the fever has
left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to
pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibberti-gibbet.' 'You are just like
a woman!' yelled Behrman. 'Who said I vill not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I
haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as
Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go avay. Gott!
yes.' Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill
and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the
ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain
was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit-miner
on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she
found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. 'Pull it up! I want to
see,' she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce
gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick
wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, but with its serrated
edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty
feet above the ground. 'It is the last one,' said Johnsy. 'I thought it would surely fall during the
night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time.' 'Dear, dear!' said Sue,
leaning her worn face down to the pillow; 'think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What
would I do?' But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is
making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more
strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day
wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem
against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while
the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it
was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was
still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring
her chicken broth over the gas stove. 'I've been a bad girl, Sudie,' said Johnsy. 'Something has
made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may
bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-
mirror first; and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.' An hour
later she said 'Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.' The doctor came in the
afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. 'Even chances,' said the
doctor, talking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. 'With good nursing you'll win. And now I must see
another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is -- some kind of an artist, I believe.
Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he
goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable.' The next day the doctor said to Sue:
'She's out of danger. You've won. Nutrition and care now - that's all.' And that afternoon Sue
came to the bed where Johnsy lay, con tentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen
shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. 'I have something to tell you, white
mouse,' she said. 'Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia today in hospital. He was ill only two days.
The janitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain.
His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been
on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been
dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours
mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder
why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece -
he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell.'XL1X A Ramble in Aphasia MY WIFE AND I
PARTED on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She left her second cup of tea to follow
me to the front door. There she plucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal
act of woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me take care of my cold. I had no cold. Next
came her kiss of parting - the level kiss of domesticity flavoured with Young Hyson. There was
no fear of the extemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft touch of long
malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf-pin; and then, as I closed the door, I heard her
morning slippers pattering back to her cooling tea. When I set out I had no thought or
premonition of what was to occur. The attack came suddenly. For many weeks I had been toiling,
almost night and day, at a famous railroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days
previously. In fact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for many years.
Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician, had warned me. 'If you don't
slacken up, Bellford,' he said, 'you'll go suddenly to pieces. Either your nerves or your brain will
give way. Tell me, does a week pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of aphasia -
of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his identity blotted out - and all from
that little brain-clot made by overwork or worry?' 'I always thought,' said I, 'that the clot in those
instances was really to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters.' Dr. Volney shook his
head. 'The disease exists,' he said. 'You need a change or a rest. Court-room, office and home -
there is the only route you travel. For recreation you - read law books. Better take warning in
time.' 'On Thursday nights,' I said defensively, 'my wife and I play cribbage. On Sundays she
reads to me the weekly letter from her mother. That law books are not a recreation remains yet to
be established.' That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney's words. I was feeling
as well as I usually did - possibly in better spirits than usual. I awoke with stiff and cramped
muscles from having slept long on the incommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head
against the seat and tried to think. After a long time I said to myself: 'I must have a name of some
sort.' I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a paper or monogram could I find. But I
found in my coat pocket nearly $3,000 in bills of large denomination. 'I must be someone, of
course,' I repeated to myself, and began again to consider. The car was well crowded with men,
among whom I told myself, there must have been some common interest, for they intermingled
freely, and seemed in the best good-humour and spirits. One of them - a stout, spectacled
gentleman enveloped in a decided odour of cinnamon and aloes - took the vacant half of my seat
with a friendly nod, and unfolded a newspaper. In the intervals between his periods of reading,
we conversed, as travellers will, on current . I found myself able to sustain the conversation on
such sub jects with credit, at least to my memory. By and by my companion said: 'You are one of
us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this time. I'm glad they held the convention in
New York; I've never been East before. My name's R. P. Bolder - Bolder & Son, of Hickory
Grove, Missouri.' Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it. Now
must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent. My senses came to the rescue
of my slower brain. The insistent odour of drugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance
at his newspaper, where my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further. 'My
name,' said I glibly, 'is Edward Pinkhammer. I am a drug gist, and my home is in Cornopolis,
Kansas.' 'I knew you were a druggist,' said my fellow-traveller affably. 'I saw the callous spot on
your right forefinger where the handle of the pestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our
National Convention.' 'Are all these men druggists?' I asked wonderingly. 'They are. This car
came through from the West. And they're your old-time druggists, too - none of your patent
tablet-and-gran ule pharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk. We
percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain't above handling a few garden
seeds in the spring, and carry ing a sideline of confectionery and shoes. I tell you, Hampinker,
I've got an idea to spring on this convention - new ideas is what they want. Now, you know the
shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart. and Sod. et Pot. Tart. - one's
poison, you know, and the other's harmless. It's easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do
druggists mostly keep 'em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different shelves. That's wrong. I
say keep 'em side by side so when you want one you can always compare it with the other and
avoid mistakes. Do you catch the idea?' 'It seems to me a very good one,' I said. 'All right! When
I spring it on the convention you back it up. We'll make some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-
and-mas sage-cream professors that think they're the only lozenges in the market look like
hypodermic tablets.' 'If I can be of any aid,' I said, warming, 'the two bottles of - er - ' 'Tartrate of
antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.' 'Shall henceforth sit side by side,' I
concluded firmly. 'Now, there's another thing,' said Mr. Bolder. 'For an excipient in manipulating
a pill mass which do you prefer - the magnesia carbonate or the pulverized glycerrhiza radix?'
'The - er - magnesia,' I said. It was easier to say than the other word. Mr. Bolder glanced at me
distrustfully through his spectacles. 'Give me the glycerrhiza,' said he. 'Magnesia cakes.' 'Here's
another one of these fake aphasia cases,' he said, presently, handing me his newspaper, and
laying his finger upon an article. 'I don't believe in 'em. I put nine out of ten of 'em down as
frauds. A man gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good time. He skips out
somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to have lost his memory - don't know his own
name, and won't even recognize the strawberry mark on his wife's left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut!
Why can't they stay at home and forget?' I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines,
the fol lowing: 'DENVER, June 12. - Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is mysteri ously
missing from his home since three days ago, and all efforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr.
Bellford is a well-known citizen of the highest stand ing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative
law practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive private library in the
State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew quite a large sum of money from his bank. No
one can be found who saw him after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of singularly quiet
and domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and profession. If any clue at
all exists to his strange disappear ance, it may be found in the fact that for some months he had
been deeply absorbed in an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z. Rail road
Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his mind. Every effort is being made to
discover the whereabouts of the missing man.' 'It seems to me you are not altogether uncynical
Mr. Bolder,' I said, after I had read the despatch. 'This has the sound, to me, of a genuine case.
Why should this man, prosperous, happily married and respected, choose suddenly to abandon
everything? I know that these lapses of memory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift
without a name, a history or a home.' 'Oh, gammon and jalap!' said Mr. Bolder. 'It's larks they're
after. There's too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they use it for an
excuse. The women are wise, too. When it's all over they look you in the eye, as scientific as you
please, and say: "He hypnotized me." ' Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid me with his com
ments and philosophy. We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to an hotel, and
I wrote my name 'Edward Pinkhammer' in the regis ter. As I did so I felt pervade me a splendid,
wild, intoxicating buoyancy - a sense of unlimited freedom, of newly attained possi bilities. I was
just born into the world. The old fetters - whatever they had been - were stricken from my hands
and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as an infant enters, and I could set out upon
it equipped with a man's learning and experience. I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five
seconds too long. I had no baggage. 'The Druggists' Convention,' I said. 'My trunk has somehow
failed to arrive.' I drew out a roll of money. 'Ah!' said he, showing an auriferous tooth, 'we have
quite a number of the Western delegates stopping here.' He struck a bell for the boy. I
endeavoured to give colour to my rôle. 'There is an important movement on foot among us
Western ers,' I said, 'in regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles containing
the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of sodium and potash, be kept in a
contiguous position on the shelf.' 'Gentleman to three-fourteen,' said the clerk hastily. I was
whisked away to my room. The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life
of Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavours to solve problems of the past. It
was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up to my lips. I drank of it
gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to him who is able to bear them. You must be either the
city's guest or its victim. The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer,
yet counting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having come upon so diverting
a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat entranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres
and roof-gardens, that transported one into strange and delightful lands full of frolicsome music,
pretty girls and grotesque, drolly extravagant parodies upon humankind. I went here and there at
my own dear will, bound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird cabarets,
at weirder tables d'hôte to the sound of Hungarian music and the wild shouts of mercurial artists
and sculptors. Or, again, where the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic
picture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones whom they adorn, and the
men who make all three possible are met for good cheer and the spectacular effect. And among
all these scenes that I have mentioned I learned one thing that I never knew before. And that is
that the key to liberty is not in the hands of Licence, but Convention holds it. Comity has a toll-
gate at which you must pay, or you may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the glitter, the
seeming disorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet like iron, prevail.
Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey these unwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the
free. If you decline to be bound by them, you put on shackles. Sometimes, as my mood urged
me, I would seek the stately, softly murmuring palm-rooms, redolent with high-born life and
delicate restraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in steamers packed
with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked, love-making clerks and shop-girls to their crude plea
sures on the island shores. And there was always Broadway - glis tening, opulent, wily, varying,
desirable Broadway - growing upon one like an opium habit. One afternoon as I entered my hotel
a stout man with a big nose and a black moustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I
would have passed around him, he greeted me with offensive familiarity. 'Hallo, Bellford!' he
cried loudly. 'What the deuce are you doing in New York? Didn't know anything could drag you
away from that old book den of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone, eh?'
'You have made a mistake, sir,' I said coldly, releasing my hand from his grasp. 'My name is
Pinkhammer. You will excuse me.' The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I
walked to the clerk's desk I heard him call to a bell-boy and say something about telegraph
blanks. 'You will give me my bill,' I said to the clerk, 'and have my bag gage brought down in
half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am annoyed by confidence men.' I moved that
afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on lower Fifth Avenue. There was a
restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be served almost alfresco in a tropic array
of screening flora. Quiet and luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to take
luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way to a table among the ferns
when I felt my sleeve caught. 'Mr. Bellford!' exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice. I turned
quickly to see a lady seated alone - a lady of about thirty, with exceedingly handsome eyes, who
looked at me as though I had been her very dear friend. 'You were about to pass me,' she said
accusingly. 'Don't tell me you did not know me. Why should we not shake hands - at least once
in fifteen years?' I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the table. I
summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was philandering with an orange ice. I
ordered a crème de menthe. Her hair was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you
could not look away from her eyes. But you were con scious of it as you are conscious of sunset
while you look into the profundities of a wood at twilight. 'Are you sure you know me?' I asked.
'No,' she said, smiling, 'I was never sure of that.' 'What would you think,' I said, a little anxiously,
'if I were to tell you that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas.' 'What
would I think?' she repeated, with a merry glance. 'Why, that you had not brought Mrs. Bellford
to New York with you, of course. I do wish you had. I would have liked to see Marian.' Her voice
lowered slightly - 'You haven't changed much, Elwyn.' I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine
and my face more closely. 'Yes, you have,' she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in
her latest tones; 'I see it now. You haven't forgotten. You haven't forgotten for a year or a day or
an hour. I told you you never could.' I poked my straw anxiously in the crème de menthe. 'I'm
sure I beg your pardon,' I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. 'But that is just the trouble. I have
forgotten. I've forgotten everything.' She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something
she seemed to see in my face. 'I've heard of you at times,' she went on. 'You're quite a big lawyer
out West - Denver, isn't it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of you. You knew, I
suppose, that I married six months after you did. You may have seen it in the papers. The flowers
alone cost two thousand dollars.' She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time.
'Would it be too late,' I asked somewhat timorously, 'to offer you congratulations?' 'Not if you
dare do it,' she answered, with such fine intrepidity that I was silent, and began to crease patterns
on the cloth with my thumb-nail. 'Tell me one thing,' she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly
'a thing I have wanted to know for many years - just from a woman's curiosity, of course - have
you ever dared since that night to touch, smell or look at white roses - at white roses wet with
rain and dew?' I took a sip of crème de menthe. It would be useless, I suppose,' I said, with a
sigh, 'for me to repeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory is
completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it.' The lady rested her arms upon the table,
and again her eyes dis dained my words and went travelling by their own route direct to my soul.
She laughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound it was a laugh of happiness yes, and of
content - and of misery. I tried to look away from her. 'You lie, Elwyn Bellford,' she breathed
blissfully. 'Oh, I know you lie!' I gazed dully into the ferns. 'My name is Edward Pinkhammer,' I
said. 'I came with the del egates to the Druggists' National Convention. There is a move ment on
foot for arranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and tartrate of potash, in
which, very likely, you would take little interest.' A shining landau stopped before the entrance.
The lady rose. I took her hand, and bowed. 'I am deeply sorry,' I said to her, 'that I cannot
remember. I could explain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede
Pinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the the roses and other things.' 'Good-bye, Mr.
Bellford,' she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as she stepped into her carriage. I attended
the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet man in dark clothes, who seemed
interested in rubbing his finger-nails with a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side.
'Mr. Pinkhammer,' he said casually, giving the bulk of his atten tion to his forefinger, 'may I
request you to step aside with me for a little conversation? There is a room here.' 'Certainly,' I
answered. He conducted me into a small, private parlour. A lady and a gentleman were there. The
lady, I surmised, would have been unusually good-looking had her features not been clouded by
an expression of keen worry and fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed colouring
and features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a travelling-dress; she fixed upon me an
earnest look of extreme anxiety, and pressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would
have started forward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative motion of
his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of forty, a little grey about the
temples, and with a strong, thoughtful face. 'Bellford, old man,' he said cordially, 'I'm glad to see
you again. Of course we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that you were
overdoing it. Now, you'll go back with us, and be yourself again in no time.' I smiled ironically. 'I
have been "Bellforded" so often,' I said, 'that it has lost its edge. Still, in the end, it may grow
wearisome. Would you be will ing at all to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward
Pinkhammer, and that I never saw you before in my life?' Before the man could reply a wailing
cry came from the woman. She sprang past his detaining arm. 'Elwyn!' she sobbed, and cast
herself upon me, and clung tight. 'Elwyn,' she cried again, 'don't break my heart. I am your wife -
call my name once - just once! I could see you dead rather than this way.' I unwound her arms
respectfully, but firmly. 'Madam,' I said severely, 'pardon me if I suggest that you accept a
resemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,' I went on, with an amused laugh, as the thought
occurred to me, 'that this Bellford and I could not be kept side by side upon the same shelf like
tartrates of sodium and antimony for purposes of identifica tion. In order to understand the
allusion,' I concluded airily, 'it may be necessary for you to keep an eye on the proceedings of the
Druggists' National Convention.' The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm. 'What
is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?' she moaned. He led her to the door. 'Go to your room for
awhile,' I heard him say. 'I will remain and talk with him. His mind? No, I think not - only a
portion of the brain. Yes, I am sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.' The
lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still manicuring himself in a
thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall. 'I would like to talk with you a while, Mr.
Pinkhammer, if I may,' said the gentleman who remained. 'Very well, if you care to,' I replied,
'and will excuse me if I take it comfortably; I am rather tired.' I stretched myself upon a couch by
a window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby. 'Let us speak to the point,' he said soothingly.
'Your name is not Pinkhammer.' 'I know that as well as you do,' I said coolly. 'But a man must
have a name of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire the name of
Pinkhammer. But when one christens one's self, suddenly the fine names do not seem to suggest
themselves. But suppose it had been Scheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with
Pinkhammer.' 'Your name,' said the other man seriously, 'is Elwyn C. Bellford. You are one of the
first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an attack of aphasia, which has caused you to
forget your identity. The cause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a life
too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has just left the room is your wife.'
'She is what I would call a fine-looking woman,' I said, after a judicial pause. 'I particularly
admire the shade of brown in her hair.' 'She is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance,
nearly two weeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were in New York
through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a travelling man from Denver. He said that he had
met you in an hotel here, and that you did not recognize him.' 'I think I remember the occasion,' I
said. 'The fellow called me "Bellford," if I am not mistaken. But don't you think it about time,
now, for you to introduce yourself?' 'I am Robert Volney - Doctor Volney. I have been your close
friend for twenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford to trace you as
soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man - try to remember!' 'What's the use to try!' I
asked, with a little frown. 'You say you are a physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his
memory, does it return slowly, or suddenly?' 'Sometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes
as suddenly as it went.' 'Will you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?' I asked.
'Old friend,' said he, 'I'll do everything in my power, and will have done everything that science
can do to cure you.' 'Very well,' said I. 'Then you will consider that I am your patient. Everything
is in confidence now - professional confidence.' 'Of course,' said Doctor Volney. I got up from
the couch. Someone had set a vase of white roses on the centre table - a cluster of white roses
freshly sprinkled and fragrant. I threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon
the couch again. 'It will be best, Bobby,' I said, 'to have this cure happen suddenly. I'm rather
tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in. But, oh, Doc,' I said, with a sigh, as
I kicked him on the shin - 'good old Doc - it was glorious!' L A Municipal Report The cities are
full of pride, Challenging each to each This from her mountainside, That from her burthened
beach. R. KIPLING. Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,
Tennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that are 'story cities' - New York, of
course, New Orleans, and, best of the lot, San Francisco. - FRANK NORRIS. EAST IS EAST,
and West is San Francisco, according to Californians. Californians are a race of people; they are
not merely inhabitants of a State. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no
less loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and speak of lake fish and the
new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians go into detail. Of course they have, in the climate,
an argument that is good for half an hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy
underwear. But as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction, madness comes
upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate as the Bagdad of the New World. So far,
as a matter of opinion, no refutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve
descended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and say: 'In this town there can be
no romance - what could happen here?' Yes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one
sentence history, romance, and Rand and McNally. NASHVILLE. - A city, port of delivery, and
the capital of the State of Tennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N.C. & St. L. and
the L. & N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important educational centre in the South.
I stepped off the train at 8 p.m. Having searched the thesaurus in vain for adjectives, I must, as a
substitution, hie me to comparison in the form of a recipe. Take of London fog 30 parts; malaria
10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts; dewdrops, gathered in a brickyard at sunrise, 25 parts; odour of
honeysuckle 15 parts. Mix. The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville
drizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup; but 'tis enough - 'twill serve.
I went to an hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for me to keep from climbing
to the top of it and giving an imitation of Sidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a
bygone era and driven by something dark and emancipated. I was sleepy and tired, so when I got
to the hotel I hurriedly paid it the fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure
you). I knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old 'marster' or anything that
happened 'befo' de wah.' The hotel was one of the kind described as 'renovated.' That means
$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass cuspidors in the lobby, and a
new L. & N. time table and a lithograph of Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms
above. The management was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite Southern courtesy,
the service as slow as the progress of a snail and as good-humoured as Rip Van Winkle. The food
was worth travelling a thousand miles for. There is no brochette. other hotel in the world where
you can get such chicken livers en At dinner I asked a negro waiter if there was anything doing
in town. He pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: 'Well, boss, I don't really reckon
there's anything at all doin' after sundown.' Sundown had been accomplished; it had been
drowned in the drizzle long before. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the
streets in the drizzle to see what might be there. 309 It is built on undulating grounds; and the
streets are lighted by electricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum. As I left the hotel there was a
race riot. Down upon me charged a company of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with - no, I
saw with relief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan of black, clumsy
vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, 'Kyar you anywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents,' I
reasoned that I was merely a 'fare' instead of a victim. I walked through long streets, all leading
uphill. I wondered how those streets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn't until they were
'graded.' On a few of the 'main streets' I saw lights in stores here and there; saw street-cars go by
conveying worthy burghers hither and yon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation,
and heard a burst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream parlour. The
streets other than 'main' seemed to have enticed upon their borders houses consecrated to peace
and domesticity. In many of them lights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few
pianos tinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little 'doing.' I wished I had
come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel. In November, 1864, the Confederate General
Hood advanced against Nashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The
latter then sallied forth and defeated the confederates in a terrible conflict. All my life I have
heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine markmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in
the tobacco chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There were twelve bright,
new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the great lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so
wide mouthed that the crack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a
ball into one of them at five paces dis tant. But, although a terrible battle had raged and was still
raging, the enemy had not suffered. Bright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But
shades of Jefferson Brick! the tile floor - the beautiful tile floor! I could not avoid thinking of the
battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my foolish habit, some deductions about hereditary
markmanship. Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I knew him
for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him. A rat has no geographical habitat.
My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as he so well said almost everything: 'Prophet, curse me the
blabbing lip, And curse me the British vermin, the rat.' Let us regard the word 'British' as
interchangeable ad lib. A rat is a rat. This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved
dog that had forgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage, red, pulpy,
and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha. He possessed one single virtue - he
was very smoothly shaven. The mark of the beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about
with a stubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would have repulsed his
advances, and the criminal calendar of the world would have been spared the addi tion of one
murder. I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major Caswell opened fire
upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive that the attacking force was using Gatlings
instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to
apologize to a non-combatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes he had become my friend
and had dragged me to the bar. I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner. But I am not
one by profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince Albert, the number
of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do
not cheer. I slide a little lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Würzburger
and wish that Longstreet had but what's the use? Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and
the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to
hope. But then he began on family trees, and demon strated that Adam was only a third cousin of
a collateral branch of the Caswell family. Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my dis taste, his
private family matters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and profanely
denied any possible rumour that she may have had relations in the land of Nod. By this time I
began to suspect that he was trying to obscure by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on
the chance that I would be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he
crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another serving was obligatory. And
when I had paid for that I took leave of him brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I
had obtained my release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and showed a
handful of silver money. When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: 'If that
man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint, we will have him
ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any known means of support, although he seems
to have some money most the time. But we don't seem to be able to hit upon any means of
throwing him out legally.' 'Why, no,' said I, after some reflection; 'I don't see my way clear to
making a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as asserting that I do not care for
his company. Your town,' I continued, 'seems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertain ment,
adventure, or excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?' 'Well, sir,' said the
clerk, 'there will be a show here next Thurs day. It is - I'll look it up and have the announcement
sent up to your room with the ice water. Good night.' After I went up to my room I looked out of
the window. It was only about ten o'clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The driz zle
continued, spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the Ladies'
Exchange. 'A quiet place,' I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceil ing of the occupant of
the room beneath mine. 'Nothing of the life here that gives colour and variety to the cities in the
East and West. Just a good, ordinary, humdrum business town.' Nashville occupies a foremost
place among the manufacturing centres of the country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the
United States, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South, and does an
enormous wholesale dry goods, grocery and drug business. I must tell you how I came to be in
Nashville, and assure you the digression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was
travelling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a com mission from a Northern literary
magazine to stop over there and establish a personal connection between the publication and one
of its contributors, Azalea Adair. Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwrit
ing) had sent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors swear approvingly
over their one o'clock luncheon. So they had commissioned me to round up said Adair and corner
by contract his or her output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her ten or
twenty. At nine o'clock the next morning, after my chicken livers en bro chette (try them if you
can find that hotel), I strayed out into the drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the
first corner I came upon Uncle Cæsar. He was a stalwart negro, older than the pyramids, with
grey wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a second afterwards of the late King
Cetewayo. He wore the most remarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to
his ankles and had once been a Confederate grey in colours. But rain and sun and age had so
variegated it that Joseph's coat, beside it, would have faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger
with that coat for it has to do with the story - the story that is so long in coming, because you can
hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville. Once it must have been the military coat of an
officer. The cape of it had vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasselled
magnificently. But now the frogs and tassels were gone. In their stead had been patiently stitched
(I surmised by some sur viving 'black mammy') new frogs made of cunningly twisted common
hempen twine. This twine was frayed and dishevelled. It must have been added to the coat as a
substitute for vanished splendours, with tasteless but painstaking devotion, for it followed
faithfully the curves of the long-missing frogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the
garment, all its buttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone remained. The
coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the button holes and other holes rudely
pierced in the opposite side. There was never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and
of so many mottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of yellow horn and
sewed on with coarse twine. This negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have
started a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals hitched to it. As I approached
he threw open the door, drew out a leather duster, waved it, without using it, and said in deep,
rumbling tones: 'Step right in, suh; ain't a speck of dust in it - jus' back from a funeral, suh.' I
inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra cleaning. I looked up and
down the street and perceived that there was little choice among the vehicles for hire that lined
the kerb. I looked in my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair. 'I want to go to 861
Jessamine Street,' I said, and was about to step into the hack. But for an instant the thick, long,
gorilla-like arm of the old negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of sudden
suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly returning conviction, he asked
blandishingly: 'What are you gwine there for, boss?' 'What is that to you?' I asked a little sharply.
'Nothin', suh, jus' nothin'. Only it's a lonesome kind of part of town and few folks ever has
business out there. Step right in. The seats is clean - jes' got back from a funeral, suh.' A mile and
a half it must have been to our journey's end. I could hear nothing but the fearful rattle of the
ancient hack over the uneven brick paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further
flavoured with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and oleander blossoms. All I
could see through the streaming windows were two rows of dim houses. The city has an area of
10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which 137 miles are paved; a system of waterworks that
cost $2,000,000, with 77 miles of mains. Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed
mansion. Thirty yards back from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees and
untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes over flowed and almost hid the paling fence from
sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose that encircled the gate-post and the first paling of
the gate. But when you got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of former
grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got inside. When the hack had ceased
from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to a rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an
additional quarter, feeling a glow of conscious generosity as I did so. He refused it. 'It's two
dollars, suh,' he said. 'How's that?' I asked. 'I plainly heard you call out at the hotel: "Fifty cents
to any part of the town." ' 'It's two dollars, suh,' he repeated obstinately. 'It's a long ways from the
hotel.' 'It is within the city limits and well within them,' I argued. 'Don't think that you have
picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those hills over there?' I went on, pointing toward the
east (I could not see them, myself, for the drizzle); 'well, I was born and raised on their other
side. You old fool nigger, can't you tell people from other people when you see em?' The grim
face of King Cetewayo softened. 'Is you from the South, suh? I reckon it was them shoes of
yourn fooled me. There is somethin' sharp in the toes for a Southern gen'l'man to wear.' 'Then the
charge is fifty cents, I suppose?' said I inexorably. His former expression, a mingling of cupidity
and hostility, returned, remained ten minutes, and vanished. 'Boss,' he said, 'fifty cents is right;
but I needs two dollars, suh; I'm obleeged to have two dollars. I ain't demandin' it now, suh; after
I knows whar you's from; I'm jus' sayin' that I has to have two dollars to-night, and business is
mighty po'.' Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been luckier than he
had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn, ignorant of rates, he had come upon an
inheritance. 'You confounded old rascal,' I said, reaching down into my pocket, 'you ought to be
turned over to the police.' For the first time I saw him smile. He knew; he knew; HE KNEW. I
gave him two one-dollar bills. As I handed them over I noticed that one of them had seen parlous
times. Its upper right-hand corner was missing, and it had been torn through in the middle but
joined again. A strip of blue tissue-paper, pasted over the split, preserved its negotiability.
Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted the rope and opened the
creaky gate. The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint-brush had not touched it in twenty years. I
could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled it over like a house of cards until I
looked again at the trees that hugged it close - the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still
drew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and cold. Azalea Adair, fifty
years old, white-haired, a descendant of the cavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in,
robed in the cheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a queen's, received
me. The reception-room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in it except some rows
of books, on unpainted, white-pine bookshelves, a cracked, marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless
horse hair sofa and two or three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a coloured crayon
drawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of Andrew Jackson and the pine-
cone hanging basket, but they were not there. Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of
which will be repeated to you. She was a product of the old South, gently nur tured in the
sheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of splendid originality in its
somewhat narrow scope. She had been educated at home, and her knowledge of the world was
derived from inference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of essayists
made. While she talked to me, I kept brushing my fingers, trying, unconsciously, to rid them
guiltily of the absent dust from the half-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius,
Montaigne and Hood. She was exquis ite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly everybody
nowadays knows too much - oh, so much too much - of real life. I could perceive clearly that
Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a dress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided
between my duty to the magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought Thomas
in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which was like a harpsichord's, and
found that I could not speak of contracts. In the presence of the Nine Muses and the Three
Graces one hesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be another colloquy
after I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of my mission, and three o'clock of the next
afternoon was set for the discussion of the business proposition. 'Your town,' I said, as I began to
make ready to depart (which is the time for smooth generalities), 'seems to be a quiet, sedate
place. A home town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever happen.' It carries on
an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the West and South, and its flouring mills have
a daily capacity of more than 2,000 barrels. Azalea Adair seemed to reflect. 'I have never
thought of it that way,' she said, with a kind of sin cere intensity that seemed to belong to her.
'Isn't it in the still, quiet places that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the
earth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one's windows and heard the drop
of mud splashing from His trowel as He built up the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest
project in the world - I mean the building of the tower of Babel - result in finally? A page and a
half of Esperanto in the North American Review.' 'Of course,' said I platitudinously, 'human
nature is the same everywhere; but there is more colour - er - more drama and movement and - er
- romance in some cities than in others.' 'On the surface,' said Azalea Adair. 'I have travelled
many times around the world in a golden airship wafted on two wings - print and dreams. I have
seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bow-string with his own hands one of
his wives who had uncovered her face in public. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his
theatre tickets because his wife was going out with her face covered - with rice powder. In San
Francisco's Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped slowly, inch by inch, in boiling
almond oil to make her swear she would never see her American lover again. She gave in when
the boiling oil had reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East Nashville the
other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her schoolmates and lifelong friends
because she had married a house painter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I
wish you could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table to table. Oh yes, it is a
humdrum town. Just a few miles of redbrick houses and mud and stores and lumber yards.'
Someone knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair breathed a soft apology and
went to investigate the sound. She came back in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush
on her cheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders. 'You must have a cup of tea before you
go,' she said, 'and a sugar cake.' She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small negro
girl about twelve, bare-foot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb in mouth and bulging
eyes. Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a dollar bill with the
upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two pieces and pasted together again with a strip of blue
tissue paper. It was one of the bills I had given the piratical negro - there was no doubt of it. 'Go
up to Mr. Baker's store on the corner, Impy,' she said, handing the girl the dollar bill, 'and get a
quarter of a pound of tea - the kind he always sends me - and ten cents worth of sugar cakes.
Now, hurry. The supply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,' she explained to me. Impy
left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had died away on the back porch, a
wild shriek - I was sure it was hers - filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an
angry man's voice mingled with the girl's further squeals and unintelligible words. Azalea Adair
rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two minutes I heard the hoarse rumble of
the man's voice; then something like an oath and a light scuffle, and she returned calmly to her
chair. 'This is a roomy house,' she said, 'and I have a tenant for part of it. I am sorry to have to
rescind my invitation to tea. It was impos sible to get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps
to-morrow Mr. Baker will be able to supply me.' I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave
the house. I inquired concerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my way I
remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair's name. But to-morrow would do. That same day
I started in on the course of iniquity that this uneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town
only two days, but in that time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an
accomplice - after the fact, if that is the correct legal term to a murder. As I rounded the corner
nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the polychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung
open the dungeony door of his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began his
ritual: 'Step right in, boss. Carriage is clean jus' got back from a funeral. Fifty cents to any - ' And
then he knew me and grinned broadly. ' 'Scuse me, boss; you is de gen'l'man what rid out with
me dis mawnin'. Thank you kindly, suh.' 'I am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at
three,' said I, 'and if you will be here, I'll let you drive me. So you know Miss Adair?' I
concluded, thinking of my dollar bill. 'I belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,' he replied. 'I
judge that she is pretty poor,' I said. 'She hasn't much money to speak of, has she?' For an instant
I looked again at the fierce countenance of King Cetewayo, and then he changed back to an
extortionate old negro hack-driver. 'She a'n't gwine to starve, suh,' he said slowly. 'She has
reso'ces, suh; she has reso'ces.' 'I shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,' said I. 'Dat is puffeckly
correct, suh,' he answered humbly; 'I jus' had to have dat two dollars dis mawnin, boss.' I went to
the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: 'A. Adair holds out for eight cents a word.'
The answer that came back was: 'Give it to her quick, you duffer.' Just before dinner 'Major'
Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the greetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few
men whom I have so instantaneously hated, and of whom it was so dif ficult to be rid. I was
standing at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the white ribbon in his face. I
would have paid gladly for the drinks, hoping thereby to escape another, but he was one of those
despicable, roaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks attend upon
every cent that they waste in their follies. With an air of producing millions he drew two one-
dollar bills from a pocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the dollar
bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the middle, and patched with a strip
of blue tissue-paper. It was my dollar bill again. It could have been no other. I went up to my
room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary, eventless Southern town had made me tired and
listless. I remember that just before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar
bill (which might have formed the clue to a tremendously fine detective story of San Francisco)
by saying to myself sleepily: 'Seems as if a lot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver's
Trust. Pays dividends promptly, too. Wonder if - ' Then I fell asleep. King Cetewayo was at his
post the next day, and rattled my bones over the stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me
back again when I was ready. Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had
looked on the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per word she grew still
paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without much trouble I managed to get her up on the
antediluvian horsehair sofa and then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-coloured
Pirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not suspected in him, he abandoned his team
and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the value of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a
grave, grey-haired and capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight
cents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of mystery. He bowed with
stately understanding, and turned to the old negro. 'Uncle Cæsar,' he said calmly, 'run up to my
house and ask Miss Lucy to give you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tum bler of
port wine. And hurry back. Don't drive - run. I want you to get back some time this week.' It
occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the speeding powers of the landpirate's
steeds. After Uncle Cæsar was gone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me
over with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he had decided that I might do.
'It is only a case of insufficient nutrition,' he said. 'In other words, the result of poverty, pride, and
starvation. Mrs. Caswell has many devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will
accept nothing except from that old negro, Uncle Cæsar, who was once owned by her family.'
'Mrs. Caswell!' said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract and saw that she had signed it
'Azalea Adair Caswell.' 'I thought she was Miss Adair,' I said. 'Married to a drunken, worthless
loafer, sir,' said the doctor. 'It is said that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant
contributes toward her support.' When the milk and wine had been brought, the doctor soon
revived Azalea Adair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that were then in
season, and their height of colour. She referred lightly to her fainting seizure as the outcome of
an old palpitation of the heart. Impy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due
elsewhere, and I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power and intentions
to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on future contributions to the magazine,
and he seemed pleased. 'By the way,' he said, 'perhaps you would like to know that you have had
royalty for a coachman. Old Cæsar's grandfather was a king in Congo. Cæsar himself has royal
ways, as you may have observed.' As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle Cæsar's voice
inside: 'Did he git bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis' Zalea?' 'Yes, Cæsar,' I heard Azalea
Adair answer weakly. And then I went in and concluded business negotiations with our
contributor. I assumed the responsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary
formality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle Cæsar drove me back to the hotel. Here ends
all the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The rest must be only bare statements of facts. At
about six o'clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle Cæsar was at his corner. He threw open the door
of his carriage, flourished his duster and began his depressing formula: 'Step right in, suh. Fifty
cents to anywhere in the city - hack's puffickly clean, suh - jus' got back from a funeral - ' And
then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His coat had taken on a few more
faded shades of colour, the twine strings were more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button
- the button of yellow horn - was gone. A motley descen dant of kings was Uncle Caesar. About
two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a drug store. In a desert where
nothing happens this was manna; so I edged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty
boxes and chairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth Caswell. A doctor
was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His decision was that it was conspicuous by its
absence. The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by curious and
ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being had been engaged in terrific battle - the
details showed that. Loafer and reprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he
had lost. His hands were yet clenched so tightly that his fingers would not be opened. The gentle
citi zens who had known him stood about and searched their vocabu laries to find some good
words, if it were possible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much thought:
'When "Cas" was about fo'teen he was one of the best spellers in school.' While I stood there the
fingers of the right hand of 'the man that was,' which hung down the side of a white pine box,
relaxed, and dropped something at my feet. I covered it with one foot qui etly, and a little later on
I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last struggle his hand must have seized that
object unwittingly and held it in a death-grip. At the hotel that night the main topic of
conversation, with the possible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of Major
Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners: 'In my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was
murdered by some of these no-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon
which he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found the money was not on
his person.' I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing the bridge over
the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow, horn, overcoat button the size of a fifty-
cent piece, with frayed ends of coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into
the slow, muddy waters below. I wonder what's doing in Buffalo! LII Proof of the Pudding
SPRING WINKED a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook, of the Min erva Magazine, and
deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his favourite corner of a Broadway hotel, and
was returning to his office when his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette.
Which is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth Street, safely forded the
spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue, and meandered along the walks of budding Madison
Square. The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a pastoral; the colour
motif was green - the presiding shade at the creation of man and vegetation. The callow grass
between the walks was the colour of verdigris, a poisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of
derelict humans that had breathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting
tree-buds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the garnishings of the fish
course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above was of that pale aquamarine tint that hall room poets
rhyme with 'true' and 'Sue' and 'coo.' The one natural and frank colour visible was the ostensible
green of the newly painted benches - a shade between the colour of a pickled cucum ber and that
of a last year's fast-back cravenette raincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the
landscape appeared a masterpiece. And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the
gentle concourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of the editor's mind.
Editor Westbrook's spirit was contented and serene. The April number of the Minerva had sold its
entire edition before the tenth day of the month - a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he
could have sold fifty copies more if he had had 'em. The owners of the magazine had raised his
(the editor's) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a recently imported cook who
was afraid of policemen; and the morning papers had published in full a speech he had made at a
publishers' banquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a splendid song
that his charming young wife had sung to him before he left his uptown apartment that morning.
She was taking enthusiastic interest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When he
had complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly hugged him for joy at his
praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic medicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly
adown the wards of the convalescent city. While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between rows
of park benches (already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood) he felt his
sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be panhandled, he turned a cold and
unprofitable face, and saw that his captor was - Dawe - Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost
ragged, the genteel scarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby. While the
editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flash light biography of Dawe is offered. He was a
fiction writer, and one of Westbrook's old acquain tances. At one time they might have called
each other old friends. Dawe had some money in those days, and lived in a decent apart ment-
house near Westbrook's. The two families often went to theatres and dinners together. Mrs. Dawe
and Mrs. Westbrook became 'dearest' friends. Then one day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to
amuse itself, ingurgitated Dawe's capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park neighbourhood,
where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one's trunk under eight branched chandeliers
and opposite Carrara marble mantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to
live by writ ing fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to Westbrook. The
Minerva printed one or two of them; the rest were returned. Westbrook sent a careful and
conscientious per sonal letter with each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for
considering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear conception of what constituted
good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was mainly concerned about the constituents of the
scanty dishes of food that she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to
her about the excellences of certain French writers. At dinner they sat down to a dish that a
hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a gulp. Dawe commented. 'It's Maupassant hash,'
said Mrs. Dawe. 'It may not be art, but I do wish you would do a five course Marion Crawford
serial with an Ella Wheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I'm hungry.' As far as this from success
was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor Westbrook's sleeve in Madison Square. That was
the first time the editor had seen Dawe in several months. 'Why, Shack, is this you?' said
Westbrook somewhat awk wardly, for the form of this phrase seemed to touch upon the other's
changed appearance. 'Sit down for a minute,' said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. 'This is my office.
I can't come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down you won't be disgraced. Those half-plucked
birds on the other benches will take you for a swell porch-climber. They won't know you are only
an editor.' 'Smoke, Shack?' said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the virulent green
bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield. Dawe snapped at the cigar as a
kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a girl pecks at a chocolate cream. 'I have just - ' began the
editor. 'Oh, I know; don't finish,' said Dawe. 'Give me a match. You have just ten minutes to
spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and invade my sanctum? There he goes
now, throwing his club at a dog that couldn't read the "Keep off the Grass" signs.' 'How goes the
writing?' asked the editor. 'Look at me,' said Dawe, 'for your answer. Now don't put on that
embarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don't get a job as a wine agent or a cab-
driver. I'm in the fight to a finish. I know I can write good fiction and I'll force you fellows to
admit it yet. I'll make you change the spelling of "regrets" to "c-h-e-q-u-e" before I'm done with
you.' Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly sorrowful, omniscient,
sympathetic, sceptical expression - the copyrighted expression of the editor beleaguered by the
unavailable contributor. 'Have you read the last story I sent you - "The Alarum of the Soul"?'
asked Dawe. 'Carefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had some good points. I
was writing you a letter to send with it when it goes back to you. I regret - ' 'Never mind the
regrets,' said Dawe grimly. 'There's neither salve nor sting in 'em any more. What I want to know
is why. Come, now; out with the good points first.' 'The story,' said Westbrook deliberately, after
a suppressed sigh, 'is written around an almost original plot. Characterization the best you have
done. Construction - almost as good, except for a few weak joints which might be strengthened
by a few changes and touches. It was a good story, except - ' 'I can write English, can't I?'
interrupted Dawe. 'I have always told you,' said the editor, 'that you had a style.' 'Then the trouble
is the - ' 'Same old thing,' said Editor Westbrook. 'You work up to your climax like an artist. And
then you turn yourself into a photogra pher. I don't know what form of obstinate madness
possesses you, Shack, but that is what you do with everything that you write. No, I will retract
the comparison with the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its impossible
perspective, man ages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth. But you spoil every denouement by
those flat, drab, obliterating strokes of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you
would rise to the liter ary pinnacle of your dramatic scenes, and paint them in the high colours
that art requires, the postman would leave fewer bulky, self-addressed envelopes at your door.'
'Oh, fiddles and footlights!' cried Dawe derisively. 'You've got that old sawmill drama kink in
your brain yet. When the man with the black moustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are
bound to have the mother kneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: "May high heaven
witness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless villain that has stolen me child feels
the weight of a mother's vengeance!" ' Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious
complacency. 'I think,' said he, 'that in real life the woman would express her self in those words
or in very similar ones.' 'Not in a six hundred nights' run anywhere but on the stage,' said Dawe
hotly. 'I'll tell you what she'd say in real life. She'd say: "What! Bessie led away by a strange
man? Good Lord! It's one trouble after another! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the
police-station. Why wasn't somebody looking after her, I'd like to know? For God's sake, get out
of my way or I'll never get ready. Not that hat - the brown one with the velvet bows. Bessie must
have been crazy; she's usually shy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I'm
upset!" 'That's the way she'd talk,' continued Dawe. 'People in real life don't fly into heroics and
blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can't do it. If they talk at all on such occasions they
draw from the same vocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas a
little more, that's all.' 'Shack,' said Editor Westbrook impressively, 'did you ever pick up the
mangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street-car, and carry it in your
arms and lay it down before the distracted mother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words
of grief and despair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?' 'I never did,' said Dawe. 'Did
you?' 'Well, no,' said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. 'But I can well imagine what she
would say.' 'So can I,' said Dawe. And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to
play the oracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an unarrived fictionist to
dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and heroines of the Minerva Magazine, contrary to the
theories of the editor thereof. 'My dear Shack,' said he, 'if I know anything of life I know that
every sudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an apposite, concordant,
conformable, and proportionate expression of feeling? How much of this inevitable accord
between expression and feeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence of
art, it would be difficult to say. The sub limely terrible roar of the lioness that has been deprived
of her cubs is dramatically as far above her customary whine and purr as the kingly and
transcendent utterances of Lear are above the level of his senile vapourings. But it is also true
that all men and women have what may be called a subconscious dramatic sense that is
awakened by a sufficiently deep and powerful emotion - a sense unconsciously acquired from
literature and the stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language befitting their
impor tance and histrionic value.' 'And in the name of seven sacred saddle-blankets of
Sagittarius, where did the stage and literature get the stunt?' asked Dawe. 'From life,' answered
the editor triumphantly. The story-writer rose from the bench and gesticulated elo quently but
dumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately his dissent. On a bench
near by a frowsy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived that his moral support was due to a
down-trodden brother. 'Punch him one, Jack,' he called hoarsely to Dawe. 'Wat's he come makin'
a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen'lemen that comes in the Square to set and think?'
Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure. 'Tell me,' asked Dawe,
with truculent anxiety, 'what especial faults in "The Alarum of the Soul" caused you to throw it
down.' 'When Gabriel Murray,' said Westbrook, 'goes to his telephone and is told that his fiancée
has been shot by a burglar, he says - I do not recall the exact words, but - ' 'I do,' said Dawe. 'He
says: "Damn Central; she always cuts me off." (And then to his friend): "Say, Tommy, does a
thirty-two bullet make a big hole? It's kind of hard luck, ain't it? Could you get me a drink from
the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side." 'And again,' continued the editor,
without pausing for argu ment, 'when Berenice opens the letter from her husband inform ing her
that he has fled with the manicure girl, her words are - let me see - ' 'She says,' interposed the
author: ' "Well, what do you think of that!" ' 'Absurdly inappropriate words,' said Westbrook,
'presenting an anti-climax - plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they mirror life
falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms when confronted by sudden tragedy.'
'Wrong,' said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. 'I say no man or woman ever spouts
highfalutin talk when they go up against a real climax. They talk naturally, and a little worse.'
The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside information. 'Say,
Westbrook,' said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, 'would you have accepted "The Alarum of the
Soul" if you had believed that the actions and words of the characters were true to life in the
parts of the story that we discussed?' 'It is very likely that I would, if I believed that way,' said the
editor. 'But I have explained to you that I do not.' 'If I could prove to you that I am right?' 'I'm
sorry, Shack, but I'm afraid I haven't time to argue any further just now.' 'I don't want to argue,'
said Dawe. 'I want to demonstrate to you from life itself that my view is the correct one.' 'How
could you do that?' asked Westbrook in a surprised tone. 'Listen,' said the writer seriously. 'I have
thought of a way. It is important to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recog nized as
correct by the magazines. I've fought for it for three years, and I'm down to my last dollar, with
two months' rent due.' 'I have applied the opposite of your theory,' said the editor, 'in selecting the
fiction for the Minerva Magazine. The circulation has gone up from ninety thousand to - ' 'Four
hundred thousand,' said Dawe. 'Whereas it should have been boosted to a million.' 'You said
something to me just now about demonstrating your pet theory.' 'I will. If you'll give me about
half an hour of your time I'll prove to you that I am right. I'll prove it by Louise.' 'Your wife!'
exclaimed Westbrook. 'How?' 'Well, not exactly by her, but with her,' said Dawe. 'Now, you
know how devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I'm the only genuine
preparation on the market that bears the old doctor's signature. She's been fonder and more
faithful than ever, since I've been cast for the neglected genius part.' 'Indeed, she is a charming
and admirable life companion,' agreed the editor. 'I remember what inseparable friends she and
Mrs. Westbrook once were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must bring
Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we'll have one of those informal chafing-dish suppers that
we used to enjoy so much.' 'Later,' said Dawe. 'When I get another shirt. And now I'll tell you my
scheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast if you can call tea and oatmeal breakfast
- Louise told me she was going to visit her aunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return
home at three o'clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now - ' Dawe glanced toward the
editor's watch pocket. 'Twenty-seven minutes to three,' said Westbrook, scanning his timepiece.
'We have just enough time,' said Dawe. 'We will go to my flat at once. I will write a note, address
it to her and leave it on the table where she will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in
the dining-room concealed by the portieres. In that note I'll say that I have fled from her for ever
with an affinity who understands the needs of my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads it
we will observe her actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the correct
one - yours or mine.' 'Oh, never!' exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. 'That would be
inexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe's feelings played upon in such a
manner.' 'Brace up,' said the writer. 'I guess I think as much of her as you do. It's for her benefit
as well as mine. I've got to get a market for my stories in some way. It won't hurt Louise. She's
healthy and sound. Her heart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It'll last for only a
minute, and then I'll step out and explain to her. You really owe it to me to give me the chance,
Westbrook.' Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in the half of him
that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all of us. Let him who has not used the scalpel
rise and stand in his place. Pity 'tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to go
around. The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried east ward and then to the south
until they arrived in the Gramercy neighbourhood. Within its high iron railings the little park had
put on its smart coat of vernal green, and was admiring itself in its foun tain minor. Outside the
railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a bygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly
gossip over the forgotten doings of the vanished quality. Sic transit gloria urbis. A block or two
north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again eastward, then, after covering a short distance,
into a lofty but narrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated façade. To the fifth
story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into the door of one of the front flats.
When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how meanly and meagrely
the rooms were furnished. 'Get a chair, if you can find one,' said Dawe, 'while I hunt up pen and
ink. Hallo, what's this? Here's a note from Louise. She must have left it there when she went out
this morning.' He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open. He began to
read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having begun it aloud he so read it through to the
end. These are the words that Editor Westbrook heard: DEAR SHACKLEFORD, 'By the time
you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and still a-going. I've got a place in the chorus
of the Occidental Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o'clock. I didn't want to
starve to death, and so I decided to make my own living. I'm not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is
going with me. She said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg and
dictionary, and she's not coming back, either. We've been practising the songs and dances for two
months on the quiet. I hope you will be successful, and get along all right. Good-bye. 'LOUISE.'
Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and cried out in a deep
vibrating voice: 'My God, why hast Thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false, then let
Thy Heaven's fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting bywords of traitors and friends!'
Editor Westbrook's glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand fumbled with a button on his
coat as he blurted between his pale lips: 'Say, Shack, ain't that a hell of a note? Wouldn't that
knock you off your perch, Shack? Ain't it hell, now, Shack - ain't it?'