JesseMarkowitzandClaude Opus 5
fa3769d0fe
Research toward building a content pack from a story corpus, kept on its own branch and independent of the game. Records the selection experiments against blind labels, and settles selection as gate G2 followed by a human review: review.py writes REVIEW.md and a review.json form, apply_review.py checks the filled form and writes situations.json for the next stage. Co-Authored-By: Claude Opus 5 <noreply@anthropic.com> Claude-Session: https://claude.ai/code/session_01C6UDQ9o6L6Ey173U7XVou6
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[{"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Twenty-five years ago the school children used to chant their\nlessons. The manner of their delivery was a singsong recitative\nbetween the utterance of an Episcopal minister and the drone of a\ntired sawmill. I mean no disrespect. We must have lumber and sawdust. I remember one beautiful and instructive little lyric that emanated\nfrom the physiology class. The most striking line of it was this: \"The shin-bone is the long-est bone in the hu-man bod-y.\" What an inestimable boon it would have been if all the corporeal\nand spiritual facts pertaining to man had thus been tunefully and\nlogically inculcated in our youthful minds! But what we gained in\nanatomy, music and philosophy was meagre. The other day I became confused. I needed a ray of light. I turned\nback to those school days for aid. But in all the nasal harmonies\nwe whined forth from those hard benches I could not recall one that\ntreated of the voice of agglomerated mankind. In other words, of the composite vocal message of massed humanity. In other words, of the Voice of a Big City. Now, the individual voice is not lacking. We can understand the\nsong of the poet, the ripple of the brook, the meaning of the man\nwho wants $5 until next Monday, the inscriptions on the tombs of\nthe Pharaohs, the language of flowers, the \"step lively\" of the\nconductor, and the prelude of the milk cans at 4 A. M. Certain\nlarge-eared ones even assert that they are wise to the vibrations of\nthe tympanum produced by concussion of the air emanating from Mr. H.\nJames. But who can comprehend the meaning of the voice of the city? I went out for to see. First, I asked Aurelia. She wore white Swiss and a hat with flowers\non it, and ribbons and ends of things fluttered here and there.", "words": 313}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Tell me,\" I said, stammeringly, for I have no voice of my own, \"what\ndoes this big--er--enormous--er--whopping city say? It must have a\nvoice of some kind. Does it ever speak to you? How do you interpret\nits meaning? It is a tremendous mass, but it must have a key.\" \"Like a Saratoga trunk?\" asked Aurelia. \"No,\" said I. \"Please do not refer to the lid. I have a fancy that\nevery city has a voice. Each one has something to say to the one who\ncan hear it. What does the big one say to you?\" \"All cities,\" said Aurelia, judicially, \"say the same thing. When\nthey get through saying it there is an echo from Philadelphia. So,\nthey are unanimous.\" \"Here are 4,000,000 people,\" said I, scholastically, \"compressed upon\nan island, which is mostly lamb surrounded by Wall Street water. The\nconjunction of so many units into so small a space must result in an\nidentity--or, or rather a homogeneity that finds its oral expression\nthrough a common channel. It is, as you might say, a consensus of\ntranslation, concentrating in a crystallized, general idea which\nreveals itself in what may be termed the Voice of the City. Can you\ntell me what it is?\" Aurelia smiled wonderfully. She sat on the high stoop. A spray\nof insolent ivy bobbed against her right ear. A ray of impudent\nmoonlight flickered upon her nose. But I was adamant, nickel-plated.", "words": 240}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I must go and find out,\" I said, \"what is the Voice of this City.\nOther cities have voices. It is an assignment. I must have it. New\nYork,\" I continued, in a rising tone, \"had better not hand me a cigar\nand say: 'Old man, I can't talk for publication.' No other city acts\nin that way. Chicago says, unhesitatingly, 'I will;' I Philadelphia\nsays, 'I should;' New Orleans says, 'I used to;' Louisville says,\n'Don't care if I do;' St. Louis says, 'Excuse me;' Pittsburg says,\n'Smoke up.' Now, New York--\" Aurelia smiled. \"Very well,\" said I, \"I must go elsewhere and find out.\" I went into a palace, tile-floored, cherub-ceilinged and square with\nthe cop. I put my foot on the brass rail and said to Billy Magnus,\nthe best bartender in the diocese: \"Billy, you've lived in New York a long time--what kind of a\nsong-and-dance does this old town give you? What I mean is, doesn't\nthe gab of it seem to kind of bunch up and slide over the bar to you\nin a sort of amalgamated tip that hits off the burg in a kind of an\nepigram with a dash of bitters and a slice of--\" \"Excuse me a minute,\" said Billy, \"somebody's punching the button at\nthe side door.\" He went away; came back with an empty tin bucket; again vanished with\nit full; returned and said to me: \"That was Mame. She rings twice. She likes a glass of beer for\nsupper. Her and the kid. If you ever saw that little skeesicks\nof mine brace up in his high chair and take his beer and-- But,\nsay, what was yours? I get kind of excited when I hear them two\nrings--was it the baseball score or gin fizz you asked for?\" \"Ginger ale,\" I answered.", "words": 306}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I walked up to Broadway. I saw a cop on the corner. The cops take\nkids up, women across, and men in. I went up to him. \"If I'm not exceeding the spiel limit,\" I said, \"let me ask you. You\nsee New York during its vocative hours. It is the function of you and\nyour brother cops to preserve the acoustics of the city. There must\nbe a civic voice that is intelligible to you. At night during your\nlonely rounds you must have heard it. What is the epitome of its\nturmoil and shouting? What does the city say to you?\" \"Friend,\" said the policeman, spinning his club, \"it don't say\nnothing. I get my orders from the man higher up. Say, I guess you're\nall right. Stand here for a few minutes and keep an eye open for the\nroundsman.\" The cop melted into the darkness of the side street. In ten minutes\nhe had returned. \"Married last Tuesday,\" he said, half gruffly. \"You know how they\nare. She comes to that corner at nine every night for a--comes to say\n'hello!' I generally manage to be there. Say, what was it you asked\nme a bit ago--what's doing in the city? Oh, there's a roof-garden or\ntwo just opened, twelve blocks up.\" I crossed a crow's-foot of street-car tracks, and skirted the edge\nof an umbrageous park. An artificial Diana, gilded, heroic, poised,\nwind-ruled, on the tower, shimmered in the clear light of her\nnamesake in the sky. Along came my poet, hurrying, hatted, haired,\nemitting dactyls, spondees and dactylis. I seized him.", "words": 267}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Bill,\" said I (in the magazine he is Cleon), \"give me a lift. I am\non an assignment to find out the Voice of the city. You see, it's a\nspecial order. Ordinarily a symposium comprising the views of Henry\nClews, John L. Sullivan, Edwin Markham, May Irwin and Charles Schwab\nwould be about all. But this is a different matter. We want a broad,\npoetic, mystic vocalization of the city's soul and meaning. You are\nthe very chap to give me a hint. Some years ago a man got at the\nNiagara Falls and gave us its pitch. The note was about two feet\nbelow the lowest G on the piano. Now, you can't put New York into a\nnote unless it's better indorsed than that. But give me an idea of\nwhat it would say if it should speak. It is bound to be a mighty and\nfar-reaching utterance. To arrive at it we must take the tremendous\ncrash of the chords of the day's traffic, the laughter and music\nof the night, the solemn tones of Dr. Parkhurst, the rag-time, the\nweeping, the stealthy hum of cab-wheels, the shout of the press\nagent, the tinkle of fountains on the roof gardens, the hullabaloo\nof the strawberry vender and the covers of _Everybody's Magazine_,\nthe whispers of the lovers in the parks--all these sounds must go\ninto your Voice--not combined, but mixed, and of the mixture an\nessence made; and of the essence an extract--an audible extract, of\nwhich one drop shall form the thing we seek.\"", "words": 259}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Do you remember,\" asked the poet, with a chuckle, \"that California\ngirl we met at Stiver's studio last week? Well, I'm on my way to see\nher. She repeated that poem of mine, 'The Tribute of Spring,' word\nfor word. She's the smartest proposition in this town just at\npresent. Say, how does this confounded tie look? I spoiled four\nbefore I got one to set right.\" \"And the Voice that I asked you about?\" I inquired. \"Oh, she doesn't sing,\" said Cleon. \"But you ought to hear her recite\nmy 'Angel of the Inshore Wind.'\" I passed on. I cornered a newsboy and he flashed at me prophetic pink\npapers that outstripped the news by two revolutions of the clock's\nlongest hand. \"Son,\" I said, while I pretended to chase coins in my penny pocket,\n\"doesn't it sometimes seem to you as if the city ought to be able to\ntalk? All these ups and downs and funny business and queer things\nhappening every day--what would it say, do you think, if it could\nspeak?\" \"Quit yer kiddin',\" said the boy. \"Wot paper yer want? I got no time\nto waste. It's Mag's birthday, and I want thirty cents to git her a\npresent.\" Here was no interpreter of the city's mouthpiece. I bought a paper,\nand consigned its undeclared treaties, its premeditated murders and\nunfought battles to an ash can. Again I repaired to the park and sat in the moon shade. I thought and\nthought, and wondered why none could tell me what I asked for. And then, as swift as light from a fixed star, the answer came to me.\nI arose and hurried--hurried as so many reasoners must, back around\nmy circle. I knew the answer and I hugged it in my breast as I flew,\nfearing lest some one would stop me and demand my secret.", "words": 312}, {"story": 0, "title": "THE VOICE OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Aurelia was still on the stoop. The moon was higher and the ivy\nshadows were deeper. I sat at her side and we watched a little cloud\ntilt at the drifting moon and go asunder quite pale and discomfited. And then, wonder of wonders and delight of delights! our hands\nsomehow touched, and our fingers closed together and did not part. After half an hour Aurelia said, with that smile of hers: \"Do you know, you haven't spoken a word since you came back!\" \"That,\" said I, nodding wisely, \"is the Voice of the City.\" II", "words": 96}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There is a saying that no man has tasted the full flavour of life\nuntil he has known poverty, love and war. The justness of this\nreflection commends it to the lover of condensed philosophy. The\nthree conditions embrace about all there is in life worth knowing. A\nsurface thinker might deem that wealth should be added to the list.\nNot so. When a poor man finds a long-hidden quarter-dollar that has\nslipped through a rip into his vest lining, he sounds the pleasure of\nlife with a deeper plummet than any millionaire can hope to cast. It seems that the wise executive power that rules life has thought\nbest to drill man in these three conditions; and none may escape all\nthree. In rural places the terms do not mean so much. Poverty is less\npinching; love is temperate; war shrinks to contests about boundary\nlines and the neighbors' hens. It is in the cities that our epigram\ngains in truth and vigor; and it has remained for one John Hopkins to\ncrowd the experience into a rather small space of time. The Hopkins flat was like a thousand others. There was a rubber plant\nin one window; a flea-bitten terrier sat in the other, wondering when\nhe was to have his day. John Hopkins was like a thousand others. He worked at $20 per week\nin a nine-story, red-brick building at either Insurance, Buckle's\nHoisting Engines, Chiropody, Loans, Pulleys, Boas Renovated, Waltz\nGuaranteed in Five Lessons, or Artificial Limbs. It is not for us to\nwring Mr. Hopkins's avocation from these outward signs that be.", "words": 267}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mrs. Hopkins was like a thousand others. The auriferous tooth, the\nsedentary disposition, the Sunday afternoon wanderlust, the draught\nupon the delicatessen store for home-made comforts, the furor for\ndepartment store marked-down sales, the feeling of superiority to\nthe lady in the third-floor front who wore genuine ostrich tips and\nhad two names over her bell, the mucilaginous hours during which\nshe remained glued to the window sill, the vigilant avoidance of\nthe instalment man, the tireless patronage of the acoustics of the\ndumb-waiter shaft--all the attributes of the Gotham flat-dweller were\nhers. One moment yet of sententiousness and the story moves. In the Big City large and sudden things happen. You round a corner\nand thrust the rib of your umbrella into the eye of your old friend\nfrom Kootenai Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in\nthe park--and lo! bandits attack you--you are ambulanced to the\nhospital--you marry your nurse; are divorced--get squeezed while\nshort on U. P. S. and D. O. W. N. S.--stand in the bread line--marry\nan heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club dues--seemingly\nall in the wink of an eye. You travel the streets, and a finger\nbeckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is dropped\nupon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table d'h\u00f4te or\nyour wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork\ncrumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly\nyoungster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked\noff.", "words": 264}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting\nstraight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with\nsatiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of \"The\nStorm\" tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hopkins discoursed droningly\nof the dinner smells from the flat across the hall. The flea-bitten\nterrier gave Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating\ntooth. Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems\nmay be grafted those essentials of a complete life. John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into\nthe tasteless dough of existence. \"Putting a new elevator in at the\noffice,\" he said, discarding the nominative noun, \"and the boss has\nturned out his whiskers.\" \"You don't mean it!\" commented Mrs. Hopkins. \"Mr. Whipples,\" continued John, \"wore his new spring suit down\nto-day. I liked it fine It's a gray with--\" He stopped, suddenly\nstricken by a need that made itself known to him. \"I believe I'll\nwalk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar,\" he concluded. John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls and\nstairs of the flat-house. The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless\ncries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and\nphrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely\npipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in\ncouples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they\nwere there to fan. The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a man\nnamed Freshmayer, who looked upon the earth as a sterile promontory.", "words": 280}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Hopkins, unknown in the store, entered and called genially for his\n\"bunch of spinach, car-fare grade.\" This imputation deepened the\npessimism of Freshmayer; but he set out a brand that came perilously\nnear to filling the order. Hopkins bit off the roots of his purchase,\nand lighted up at the swinging gas jet. Feeling in his pockets to\nmake payment, he found not a penny there. \"Say, my friend,\" he explained, frankly, \"I've come out without any\nchange. Hand you that nickel first time I pass.\" Joy surged in Freshmayer's heart. Here was corroboration of his\nbelief that the world was rotten and man a peripatetic evil. Without\na word he rounded the end of his counter and made earnest onslaught\nupon his customer. Hopkins was no man to serve as a punching-bag for\na pessimistic tobacconist. He quickly bestowed upon Freshmayer a\ncolorado-maduro eye in return for the ardent kick that he received\nfrom that dealer in goods for cash only. The impetus of the enemy's attack forced the Hopkins line back to\nthe sidewalk. There the conflict raged; the pacific wooden Indian,\nwith his carven smile, was overturned, and those of the street who\ndelighted in carnage pressed round to view the zealous joust.", "words": 206}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But then came the inevitable cop and imminent inconvenience for both\nthe attacker and attacked. John Hopkins was a peaceful citizen, who\nworked at rebuses of nights in a flat, but he was not without the\nfundamental spirit of resistance that comes with the battle-rage.\nHe knocked the policeman into a grocer's sidewalk display of goods\nand gave Freshmayer a punch that caused him temporarily to regret\nthat he had not made it a rule to extend a five-cent line of credit\nto certain customers. Then Hopkins took spiritedly to his heels down\nthe sidewalk, closely followed by the cigar-dealer and the policeman,\nwhose uniform testified to the reason in the grocer's sign that read:\n\"Eggs cheaper than anywhere else in the city.\" As Hopkins ran he became aware of a big, low, red, racing automobile\nthat kept abreast of him in the street. This auto steered in to the\nside of the sidewalk, and the man guiding it motioned to Hopkins\nto jump into it. He did so without slackening his speed, and fell\ninto the turkey-red upholstered seat beside the chauffeur. The big\nmachine, with a diminuendo cough, flew away like an albatross down\nthe avenue into which the street emptied. The driver of the auto sped his machine without a word. He was masked\nbeyond guess in the goggles and diabolic garb of the chauffeur. \"Much obliged, old man,\" called Hopkins, gratefully. \"I guess you've\ngot sporting blood in you, all right, and don't admire the sight of\ntwo men trying to soak one. Little more and I'd have been pinched.\" The chauffeur made no sign that he had heard. Hopkins shrugged a\nshoulder and chewed at his cigar, to which his teeth had clung grimly\nthroughout the m\u00eal\u00e9e. Ten minutes and the auto turned into the open carriage entrance of a\nnoble mansion of brown stone, and stood still. The chauffeur leaped\nout, and said:", "words": 319}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Come quick. The lady, she will explain. It is the great honor you\nwill have, monsieur. Ah, that milady could call upon Armand to do\nthis thing! But, no, I am only one chauffeur.\" With vehement gestures the chauffeur conducted Hopkins into the\nhouse. He was ushered into a small but luxurious reception chamber. A\nlady, young, and possessing the beauty of visions, rose from a chair.\nIn her eyes smouldered a becoming anger. Her high-arched, threadlike\nbrows were ruffled into a delicious frown. \"Milady,\" said the chauffeur, bowing low, \"I have the honor to\nrelate to you that I went to the house of Monsieur Long and found\nhim to be not at home. As I came back I see this gentleman in\ncombat against--how you say--greatest odds. He is fighting with\nfive--ten--thirty men--gendarmes, _aussi_. Yes, milady, he what you\ncall 'swat' one--three--eight policemans. If that Monsieur Long is\nout I say to myself this gentleman he will serve milady so well, and\nI bring him here.\" \"Very well, Armand,\" said the lady, \"you may go.\" She turned to\nHopkins. \"I sent my chauffeur,\" she said, \"to bring my cousin, Walter Long.\nThere is a man in this house who has treated me with insult and\nabuse. I have complained to my aunt, and she laughs at me. Armand\nsays you are brave. In these prosaic days men who are both brave and\nchivalrous are few. May I count upon your assistance?\"", "words": 243}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "John Hopkins thrust the remains of his cigar into his coat pocket.\nHe looked upon this winning creature and felt his first thrill of\nromance. It was a knightly love, and contained no disloyalty to the\nflat with the flea-bitten terrier and the lady of his choice. He had\nmarried her after a picnic of the Lady Label Stickers' Union, Lodge\nNo. 2, on a dare and a bet of new hats and chowder all around with\nhis friend, Billy McManus. This angel who was begging him to come\nto her rescue was something too heavenly for chowder, and as for\nhats--golden, jewelled crowns for her! \"Say,\" said John Hopkins, \"just show me the guy that you've got the\ngrouch at. I've neglected my talents as a scrapper heretofore, but\nthis is my busy night.\" \"He is in there,\" said the lady, pointing to a closed door. \"Come.\nAre you sure that you do not falter or fear?\" \"Me?\" said John Hopkins. \"Just give me one of those roses in the\nbunch you are wearing, will you?\" The lady gave him a red, red rose. John Hopkins kissed it, stuffed it\ninto his vest pocket, opened the door and walked into the room. It\nwas a handsome library, softly but brightly lighted. A young man was\nthere, reading. \"Books on etiquette is what you want to study,\" said John Hopkins,\nabruptly. \"Get up here, and I'll give you some lessors. Be rude to a\nlady, will you?\" The young man looked mildly surprised. Then he arose languidly,\ndextrously caught the arms of John Hopkins and conducted him\nirresistibly to the front door of the house. \"Beware, Ralph Branscombe,\" cried the lady, who had followed, \"what\nyou do to the gallant man who has tried to protect me.\" The young man shoved John Hopkins gently out the door and then closed\nit.", "words": 311}, {"story": 1, "title": "THE COMPLETE LIFE OF JOHN HOPKINS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Bess,\" he said calmly, \"I wish you would quit reading historical\nnovels. How in the world did that fellow get in here?\" \"Armand brought him,\" said the young lady. \"I think you are awfully\nmean not to let me have that St. Bernard. I sent Armand for Walter. I\nwas so angry with you.\" \"Be sensible, Bess,\" said the young man, taking her arm. \"That dog\nisn't safe. He has bitten two or three people around the kennels.\nCome now, let's go tell auntie we are in good humor again.\" Arm in arm, they moved away. John Hopkins walked to his flat. The janitor's five-year-old daughter\nwas playing on the steps. Hopkins gave her a nice, red rose and\nwalked upstairs. Mrs. Hopkins was philandering with curl-papers. \"Get your cigar?\" she asked, disinterestedly. \"Sure,\" said Hopkins, \"and I knocked around a while outside. It's a\nnice night.\" He sat upon the hornblende sofa, took out the stump of his cigar,\nlighted it, and gazed at the graceful figures in \"The Storm\" on the\nopposite wall. \"I was telling you,\" said he, \"about Mr. Whipple's suit. It's a gray,\nwith an invisible check, and it looks fine.\" III", "words": 197}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There, were 3,000 girls in the Biggest Store. Masie was one of them.\nShe was eighteen and a saleslady in the gents' gloves. Here she\nbecame versed in two varieties of human beings--the kind of gents who\nbuy their gloves in department stores and the kind of women who buy\ngloves for unfortunate gents. Besides this wide knowledge of the\nhuman species, Masie had acquired other information. She had listened\nto the promulgated wisdom of the 2,999 other girls and had stored it\nin a brain that was as secretive and wary as that of a Maltese cat.\nPerhaps nature, foreseeing that she would lack wise counsellors, had\nmingled the saving ingredient of shrewdness along with her beauty, as\nshe has endowed the silver fox of the priceless fur above the other\nanimals with cunning. For Masie was beautiful. She was a deep-tinted blonde, with the calm\npoise of a lady who cooks butter cakes in a window. She stood behind\nher counter in the Biggest Store; and as you closed your hand over\nthe tape-line for your glove measure you thought of Hebe; and as you\nlooked again you wondered how she had come by Minerva's eyes. When the floorwalker was not looking Masie chewed tutti frutti; when\nhe was looking she gazed up as if at the clouds and smiled wistfully.", "words": 223}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "That is the shopgirl smile, and I enjoin you to shun it unless you\nare well fortified with callosity of the heart, caramels and a\ncongeniality for the capers of Cupid. This smile belonged to Masie's\nrecreation hours and not to the store; but the floorwalker must have\nhis own. He is the Shylock of the stores. When he comes nosing around\nthe bridge of his nose is a toll-bridge. It is goo-goo eyes or \"git\"\nwhen he looks toward a pretty girl. Of course not all floorwalkers\nare thus. Only a few days ago the papers printed news of one over\neighty years of age. One day Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, traveller, poet,\nautomobilist, happened to enter the Biggest Store. It is due to him\nto add that his visit was not voluntary. Filial duty took him by the\ncollar and dragged him inside, while his mother philandered among the\nbronze and terra-cotta statuettes. Carter strolled across to the glove counter in order to shoot a\nfew minutes on the wing. His need for gloves was genuine; he had\nforgotten to bring a pair with him. But his action hardly calls for\napology, because he had never heard of glove-counter flirtations. As he neared the vicinity of his fate he hesitated, suddenly\nconscious of this unknown phase of Cupid's less worthy profession. Three or four cheap fellows, sonorously garbed, were leaning over\nthe counters, wrestling with the mediatorial hand-coverings, while\ngiggling girls played vivacious seconds to their lead upon the\nstrident string of coquetry. Carter would have retreated, but he\nhad gone too far. Masie confronted him behind her counter with a\nquestioning look in eyes as coldly, beautifully, warmly blue as the\nglint of summer sunshine on an iceberg drifting in Southern seas.", "words": 295}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And then Irving Carter, painter, millionaire, etc., felt a warm flush\nrise to his aristocratically pale face. But not from diffidence. The\nblush was intellectual in origin. He knew in a moment that he stood\nin the ranks of the ready-made youths who wooed the giggling girls at\nother counters. Himself leaned against the oaken trysting place of\na cockney Cupid with a desire in his heart for the favor of a glove\nsalesgirl. He was no more than Bill and Jack and Mickey. And then he\nfelt a sudden tolerance for them, and an elating, courageous contempt\nfor the conventions upon which he had fed, and an unhesitating\ndetermination to have this perfect creature for his own. When the gloves were paid for and wrapped Carter lingered for a\nmoment. The dimples at the corners of Masie's damask mouth deepened.\nAll gentlemen who bought gloves lingered in just that way. She curved\nan arm, showing like Psyche's through her shirt-waist sleeve, and\nrested an elbow upon the show-case edge. Carter had never before encountered a situation of which he had not\nbeen perfect master. But now he stood far more awkward than Bill\nor Jack or Mickey. He had no chance of meeting this beautiful girl\nsocially. His mind struggled to recall the nature and habits of\nshopgirls as he had read or heard of them. Somehow he had received\nthe idea that they sometimes did not insist too strictly upon the\nregular channels of introduction. His heart beat loudly at the\nthought of proposing an unconventional meeting with this lovely and\nvirginal being. But the tumult in his heart gave him courage. After a few friendly and well-received remarks on general subjects,\nhe laid his card by her hand on the counter.", "words": 294}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Will you please pardon me,\" he said, \"if I seem too bold; but I\nearnestly hope you will allow me the pleasure of seeing you again.\nThere is my name; I assure you that it is with the greatest respect\nthat I ask the favor of becoming one of your fr--acquaintances. May\nI not hope for the privilege?\" Masie knew men--especially men who buy gloves. Without hesitation she\nlooked him frankly and smilingly in the eyes, and said: \"Sure. I guess you're all right. I don't usually go out with strange\ngentlemen, though. It ain't quite ladylike. When should you want to\nsee me again?\" \"As soon as I may,\" said Carter. \"If you would allow me to call at\nyour home, I--\" Masie laughed musically. \"Oh, gee, no!\" she said, emphatically. \"If\nyou could see our flat once! There's five of us in three rooms. I'd\njust like to see ma's face if I was to bring a gentleman friend\nthere!\" \"Anywhere, then,\" said the enamored Carter, \"that will be convenient\nto you.\" \"Say,\" suggested Masie, with a bright-idea look in her peach-blow\nface; \"I guess Thursday night will about suit me. Suppose you come to\nthe corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-eighth Street at 7:30. I live\nright near the corner. But I've got to be back home by eleven. Ma\nnever lets me stay out after eleven.\" Carter promised gratefully to keep the tryst, and then hastened to\nhis mother, who was looking about for him to ratify her purchase of\na bronze Diana. A salesgirl, with small eyes and an obtuse nose, strolled near Masie,\nwith a friendly leer. \"Did you make a hit with his nobs, Mase?\" she asked, familiarly. \"The gentleman asked permission to call,\" answered Masie, with the\ngrand air, as she slipped Carter's card into the bosom of her waist.", "words": 308}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Permission to call!\" echoed small eyes, with a snigger. \"Did he say\nanything about dinner in the Waldorf and a spin in his auto\nafterward?\" \"Oh, cheese it!\" said Masie, wearily. \"You've been used to swell\nthings, I don't think. You've had a swelled head ever since that\nhose-cart driver took you out to a chop suey joint. No, he never\nmentioned the Waldorf; but there's a Fifth Avenue address on his\ncard, and if he buys the supper you can bet your life there won't be\nno pigtail on the waiter what takes the order.\" As Carter glided away from the Biggest Store with his mother in his\nelectric runabout, he bit his lip with a dull pain at his heart.\nHe knew that love had come to him for the first time in all the\ntwenty-nine years of his life. And that the object of it should make\nso readily an appointment with him at a street corner, though it was\na step toward his desires, tortured him with misgivings. Carter did not know the shopgirl. He did not know that her home is\noften either a scarcely habitable tiny room or a domicile filled to\noverflowing with kith and kin. The street-corner is her parlor, the\npark is her drawing-room; the avenue is her garden walk; yet for the\nmost part she is as inviolate mistress of herself in them as is my\nlady inside her tapestried chamber. One evening at dusk, two weeks after their first meeting, Carter and\nMasie strolled arm-in-arm into a little, dimly-lit park. They found a\nbench, tree-shadowed and secluded, and sat there. For the first time his arm stole gently around her. Her golden-bronze\nhead slid restfully against his shoulder. \"Gee!\" sighed Masie, thankfully. \"Why didn't you ever think of that\nbefore?\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Masie,\" said Carter, earnestly, \"you surely know that I love you. I\nask you sincerely to marry me. You know me well enough by this time\nto have no doubts of me. I want you, and I must have you. I care\nnothing for the difference in our stations.\" \"What is the difference?\" asked Masie, curiously. \"Well, there isn't any,\" said Carter, quickly, \"except in the minds\nof foolish people. It is in my power to give you a life of luxury. My\nsocial position is beyond dispute, and my means are ample.\" \"They all say that,\" remarked Masie. \"It's the kid they all give you.\nI suppose you really work in a delicatessen or follow the races. I\nain't as green as I look.\" \"I can furnish you all the proofs you want,\" said Carter, gently.\n\"And I want you, Masie. I loved you the first day I saw you.\" \"They all do,\" said Masie, with an amused laugh, \"to hear 'em talk.\nIf I could meet a man that got stuck on me the third time he'd seen\nme I think I'd get mashed on him.\" \"Please don't say such things,\" pleaded Carter. \"Listen to me, dear.\nEver since I first looked into your eyes you have been the only woman\nin the world for me.\" \"Oh, ain't you the kidder!\" smiled Masie. \"How many other girls did\nyou ever tell that?\"", "words": 234}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But Carter persisted. And at length he reached the flimsy, fluttering\nlittle soul of the shopgirl that existed somewhere deep down in her\nlovely bosom. His words penetrated the heart whose very lightness was\nits safest armor. She looked up at him with eyes that saw. And a warm\nglow visited her cool cheeks. Tremblingly, awfully, her moth wings\nclosed, and she seemed about to settle upon the flower of love. Some\nfaint glimmer of life and its possibilities on the other side of her\nglove counter dawned upon her. Carter felt the change and crowded the\nopportunity. \"Marry me, Masie,\" he whispered softly, \"and we will go away from\nthis ugly city to beautiful ones. We will forget work and business,\nand life will be one long holiday. I know where I should take you--I\nhave been there often. Just think of a shore where summer is eternal,\nwhere the waves are always rippling on the lovely beach and the\npeople are happy and free as children. We will sail to those shores\nand remain there as long as you please. In one of those far-away\ncities there are grand and lovely palaces and towers full of\nbeautiful pictures and statues. The streets of the city are water,\nand one travels about in--\" \"I know,\" said Masie, sitting up suddenly. \"Gondolas.\" \"Yes,\" smiled Carter. \"I thought so,\" said Masie. \"And then,\" continued Carter, \"we will travel on and see whatever we\nwish in the world. After the European cities we will visit India and\nthe ancient cities there, and ride on elephants and see the wonderful\ntemples of the Hindoos and Brahmins and the Japanese gardens and the\ncamel trains and chariot races in Persia, and all the queer sights of\nforeign countries. Don't you think you would like it, Masie?\" Masie rose to her feet.", "words": 307}, {"story": 2, "title": "A LICKPENNY LOVER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I think we had better be going home,\" she said, coolly. \"It's\ngetting late.\" Carter humored her. He had come to know her varying, thistle-down\nmoods, and that it was useless to combat them. But he felt a certain\nhappy triumph. He had held for a moment, though but by a silken\nthread, the soul of his wild Psyche, and hope was stronger within\nhim. Once she had folded her wings and her cool hand had closed about\nhis own. At the Biggest Store the next day Masie's chum, Lulu, waylaid her in\nan angle of the counter. \"How are you and your swell friend making it? she asked. \"Oh, him?\" said Masie, patting her side curls. \"He ain't in it any\nmore. Say, Lu, what do you think that fellow wanted me to do?\" \"Go on the stage?\" guessed Lulu, breathlessly. \"Nit; he's too cheap a guy for that. He wanted me to marry him and go\ndown to Coney Island for a wedding tour!\" IV", "words": 167}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Big Jim Dougherty was a sport. He belonged to that race of men.\nIn Manhattan it is a distinct race. They are the Caribs of the\nNorth--strong, artful, self-sufficient, clannish, honorable within\nthe laws of their race, holding in lenient contempt neighboring\ntribes who bow to the measure of Society's tapeline. I refer, of\ncourse, to the titled nobility of sportdom. There is a class which\nbears as a qualifying adjective the substantive belonging to a wind\ninstrument made of a cheap and base metal. But the tin mines of\nCornwall never produced the material for manufacturing descriptive\nnomenclature for \"Big Jim\" Dougherty. The habitat of the sport is the lobby or the outside corner of\ncertain hotels and combination restaurants and caf\u00e9s. They are mostly\nmen of different sizes, running from small to large; but they are\nunanimous in the possession of a recently shaven, blue-black cheek\nand chin and dark overcoats (in season) with black velvet collars. Of the domestic life of the sport little is known. It has been said\nthat Cupid and Hymen sometimes take a hand in the game and copper the\nqueen of hearts to lose. Daring theorists have averred--not content\nwith simply saying--that a sport often contracts a spouse, and even\nincurs descendants. Sometimes he sits in the game of politics; and\nthen at chowder picnics there is a revelation of a Mrs. Sport and\nlittle Sports in glazed hats with tin pails.", "words": 240}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But mostly the sport is Oriental. He believes his women-folk should\nnot be too patent. Somewhere behind grilles or flower-ornamented fire\nescapes they await him. There, no doubt, they tread on rugs from\nTeheran and are diverted by the bulbul and play upon the dulcimer and\nfeed upon sweetmeats. But away from his home the sport is an integer.\nHe does not, as men of other races in Manhattan do, become the convoy\nin his unoccupied hours of fluttering laces and high heels that tick\noff delectably the happy seconds of the evening parade. He herds with\nhis own race at corners, and delivers a commentary in his Carib lingo\nupon the passing show. \"Big Jim\" Dougherty had a wife, but he did not wear a button portrait\nof her upon his lapel. He had a home in one of those brown-stone,\niron-railed streets on the west side that look like a recently\nexcavated bowling alley of Pompeii. To this home of his Mr. Dougherty repaired each night when the hour\nwas so late as to promise no further diversion in the arch domains\nof sport. By that time the occupant of the monogamistic harem would\nbe in dreamland, the bulbul silenced and the hour propitious for\nslumber. \"Big Jim\" always arose at twelve, meridian, for breakfast, and soon\nafterward he would return to the rendezvous of his \"crowd.\" He was always vaguely conscious that there was a Mrs. Dougherty. He\nwould have received without denial the charge that the quiet, neat,\ncomfortable little woman across the table at home was his wife. In\nfact, he remembered pretty well that they had been married for nearly\nfour years. She would often tell him about the cute tricks of Spot,\nthe canary, and the light-haired lady that lived in the window of the\nflat across the street.", "words": 306}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Big Jim\" Dougherty even listened to this conversation of hers\nsometimes. He knew that she would have a nice dinner ready for him\nevery evening at seven when he came for it. She sometimes went to\nmatin\u00e9es, and she had a talking machine with six dozen records. Once\nwhen her Uncle Amos blew in on a wind from up-state, she went with\nhim to the Eden Mus\u00e9e. Surely these things were diversions enough for\nany woman. One afternoon Mr. Dougherty finished his breakfast, put on his hat\nand got away fairly for the door. When his hand was on the knob be\nheard his wife's voice. \"Jim,\" she said, firmly, \"I wish you would take me out to dinner this\nevening. It has been three years since you have been outside the door\nwith me.\" \"Big Jim\" was astounded. She had never asked anything like this\nbefore. It had the flavour of a totally new proposition. But he was a\ngame sport. \"All right,\" he said. \"You be ready when I come at seven. None of\nthis 'wait two minutes till I primp an hour or two' kind of business,\nnow, Dele.\" \"I'll be ready,\" said his wife, calmly. At seven she descended the stone steps in the Pompeian bowling alley\nat the side of \"Big Jim\" Dougherty. She wore a dinner gown made of\na stuff that the spiders must have woven, and of a color that a\ntwilight sky must have contributed. A light coat with many admirably\nunnecessary capes and adorably inutile ribbons floated downward\nfrom her shoulders. Fine feathers do make fine birds; and the only\nreproach in the saying is for the man who refuses to give up his\nearnings to the ostrich-tip industry.", "words": 289}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Big Jim\" Dougherty was troubled. There was a being at his side whom\nhe did not know. He thought of the sober-hued plumage that this bird\nof paradise was accustomed to wear in her cage, and this winged\nrevelation puzzled him. In some way she reminded him of the Delia\nCullen that he had married four years before. Shyly and rather\nawkwardly he stalked at her right hand. \"After dinner I'll take you back home, Dele,\" said Mr. Dougherty,\n\"and then I'll drop back up to Seltzer's with the boys. You can have\nswell chuck to-night if you want it. I made a winning on Anaconda\nyesterday; so you can go as far as you like.\" Mr. Dougherty had intended to make the outing with his unwonted wife\nan inconspicuous one. Uxoriousness was a weakness that the precepts\nof the Caribs did not countenance. If any of his friends of the\ntrack, the billiard cloth or the square circle had wives they had\nnever complained of the fact in public. There were a number of table\nd'h\u00f4te places on the cross streets near the broad and shining way;\nand to one of these he had purposed to escort her, so that the bushel\nmight not be removed from the light of his domesticity. But while on the way Mr. Dougherty altered those intentions. He had\nbeen casting stealthy glances at his attractive companion and he\nwas seized with the conviction that she was no selling plater. He\nresolved to parade with his wife past Seltzer's caf\u00e9, where at this\ntime a number of his tribe would be gathered to view the daily\nevening procession. Yes; and he would take her to dine at Hoogley's,\nthe swellest slow-lunch warehouse on the line, he said to himself.", "words": 295}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The congregation of smooth-faced tribal gentlemen were on watch at\nSeltzer's. As Mr. Dougherty and his reorganized Delia passed they\nstared, momentarily petrified, and then removed their hats--a\nperformance as unusual to them as was the astonishing innovation\npresented to their gaze by \"Big Jim\". On the latter gentleman's\nimpassive face there appeared a slight flicker of triumph--a faint\nflicker, no more to be observed than the expression called there by\nthe draft of little casino to a four-card spade flush. Hoogley's was animated. Electric lights shone as, indeed, they were\nexpected to do. And the napery, the glassware and the flowers also\nmeritoriously performed the spectacular duties required of them. The\nguests were numerous, well-dressed and gay. A waiter--not necessarily obsequious--conducted \"Big Jim\" Dougherty\nand his wife to a table. \"Play that menu straight across for what you like, Dele,\" said \"Big\nJim.\" \"It's you for a trough of the gilded oats to-night. It strikes\nme that maybe we've been sticking too fast to home fodder.\" \"Big Jim's\" wife gave her order. He looked at her with respect. She\nhad mentioned truffles; and he had not known that she knew what\ntruffles were. From the wine list she designated an appropriate and\ndesirable brand. He looked at her with some admiration. She was beaming with the innocent excitement that woman derives from\nthe exercise of her gregariousness. She was talking to him about a\nhundred things with animation and delight. And as the meal progressed\nher cheeks, colorless from a life indoors, took on a delicate flush.\n\"Big Jim\" looked around the room and saw that none of the women\nthere had her charm. And then he thought of the three years she had\nsuffered immurement, uncomplaining, and a flush of shame warmed him,\nfor he carried fair play as an item in his creed.", "words": 306}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But when the Honorable Patrick Corrigan, leader in Dougherty's\ndistrict and a friend of his, saw them and came over to the table,\nmatters got to the three-quarter stretch. The Honorable Patrick was a\ngallant man, both in deeds and words. As for the Blarney stone, his\nprevious actions toward it must have been pronounced. Heavy damages\nfor breach of promise could surely have been obtained had the Blarney\nstone seen fit to sue the Honorable Patrick. \"Jimmy, old man!\" he called; he clapped Dougherty on the back; he\nshone like a midday sun upon Delia. \"Honorable Mr. Corrigan--Mrs. Dougherty,\" said \"Big Jim.\" The Honorable Patrick became a fountain of entertainment and\nadmiration. The waiter had to fetch a third chair for him; he made\nanother at the table, and the wineglasses were refilled. \"You selfish old rascal!\" he exclaimed, shaking an arch finger at\n\"Big Jim,\" \"to have kept Mrs. Dougherty a secret from us.\" And then \"Big Jim\" Dougherty, who was no talker, sat dumb, and saw\nthe wife who had dined every evening for three years at home, blossom\nlike a fairy flower. Quick, witty, charming, full of light and ready\ntalk, she received the experienced attack of the Honorable Patrick on\nthe field of repartee and surprised, vanquished, delighted him. She\nunfolded her long-closed petals and around her the room became a\ngarden. They tried to include \"Big Jim\" in the conversation, but he\nwas without a vocabulary. And then a stray bunch of politicians and good fellows who lived for\nsport came into the room. They saw \"Big Jim\" and the leader, and over\nthey came and were made acquainted with Mrs. Dougherty. And in a few\nminutes she was holding a salon. Half a dozen men surrounded her,\ncourtiers all, and six found her capable of charming. \"Big Jim\" sat,\ngrim, and kept saying to himself: \"Three years, three years!\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The dinner came to an end. The Honorable Patrick reached for Mrs.\nDougherty's cloak; but that was a matter of action instead of words,\nand Dougherty's big hand got it first by two seconds. While the farewells were being said at the door the Honorable Patrick\nsmote Dougherty mightily between the shoulders. \"Jimmy, me boy,\" he declared, in a giant whisper, \"the madam is a\njewel of the first water. Ye're a lucky dog.\" \"Big Jim\" walked homeward with his wife. She seemed quite as\npleased with the lights and show windows in the streets as with the\nadmiration of the men in Hoogley's. As they passed Seltzer's they\nheard the sound of many voices in the caf\u00e9. The boys would be\nstarting the drinks around now and discussing past performances. At the door of their home Delia paused. The pleasure of the outing\nradiated softly from her countenance. She could not hope for Jim of\nevenings, but the glory of this one would lighten her lonely hours\nfor a long time. \"Thank you for taking me out, Jim,\" she said, gratefully. \"You'll be\ngoing back up to Seltzer's now, of course.\" \"To ---- with Seltzer's,\" said \"Big Jim,\" emphatically. \"And d----\nPat Corrigan! Does he think I haven't got any eyes?\" And the door closed behind both of them. V \"LITTLE SPECK IN GARNERED FRUIT\" The honeymoon was at its full. There was a flat with the reddest of\nnew carpets, tasselled porti\u00e8res and six steins with pewter lids\narranged on a ledge above the wainscoting of the dining-room. The\nwonder of it was yet upon them. Neither of them had ever seen a\nyellow primrose by the river's brim; but if such a sight had met\ntheir eyes at that time it would have seemed like--well, whatever\nthe poet expected the right kind of people to see in it besides a\nprimrose.", "words": 314}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The bride sat in the rocker with her feet resting upon the world. She\nwas wrapt in rosy dreams and a kimono of the same hue. She wondered\nwhat the people in Greenland and Tasmania and Beloochistan were\nsaying one to another about her marriage to Kid McGarry. Not that it\nmade any difference. There was no welter-weight from London to the\nSouthern Cross that could stand up four hours--no; four rounds--with\nher bridegroom. And he had been hers for three weeks; and the crook\nof her little finger could sway him more than the fist of any\n142-pounder in the world. Love, when it is ours, is the other name for self-abnegation and\nsacrifice. When it belongs to people across the airshaft it means\narrogance and self-conceit. The bride crossed her oxfords and looked thoughtfully at the\ndistemper Cupids on the ceiling. \"Precious,\" said she, with the air of Cleopatra asking Antony for\nRome done up in tissue paper and delivered at residence, \"I think\nI would like a peach.\" Kid McGarry arose and put on his coat and hat. He was serious,\nshaven, sentimental, and spry. \"All right,\" said he, as coolly as though he were only agreeing to\nsign articles to fight the champion of England. \"I'll step down and\ncop one out for you--see?\" \"Don't be long,\" said the bride. \"I'll be lonesome without my naughty\nboy. Get a nice, ripe one.\" After a series of farewells that would have befitted an imminent\nvoyage to foreign parts, the Kid went down to the street. Here he not unreasonably hesitated, for the season was yet early\nspring, and there seemed small chance of wresting anywhere from those\nchill streets and stores the coveted luscious guerdon of summer's\ngolden prime. At the Italian's fruit-stand on the corner he stopped and cast a\ncontemptuous eye over the display of papered oranges, highly polished\napples and wan, sun-hungry bananas.", "words": 319}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Gotta da peach?\" asked the Kid in the tongue of Dante, the lover of\nlovers. \"Ah, no,--\" sighed the vender. \"Not for one mont com-a da peach. Too\nsoon. Gotta da nice-a orange. Like-a da orange?\" Scornful, the Kid pursued his quest. He entered the all-night\nchop-house, caf\u00e9, and bowling-alley of his friend and admirer, Justus\nO'Callahan. The O'Callahan was about in his institution, looking for\nleaks. \"I want it straight,\" said the Kid to him. \"The old woman has got a\nhunch that she wants a peach. Now, if you've got a peach, Cal, get it\nout quick. I want it and others like it if you've got 'em in plural\nquantities.\" \"The house is yours,\" said O'Callahan. \"But there's no peach in it.\nIt's too soon. I don't suppose you could even find 'em at one of the\nBroadway joints. That's too bad. When a lady fixes her mouth for a\ncertain kind of fruit nothing else won't do. It's too late now to\nfind any of the first-class fruiterers open. But if you think the\nmissis would like some nice oranges I've just got a box of fine ones\nin that she might--\" \"Much obliged, Cal. It's a peach proposition right from the ring of\nthe gong. I'll try further.\" The time was nearly midnight as the Kid walked down the West-Side\navenue. Few stores were open, and such as were practically hooted at\nthe idea of a peach. But in her moated flat the bride confidently awaited her Persian\nfruit. A champion welter-weight not find a peach?--not stride\ntriumphantly over the seasons and the zodiac and the almanac to\nfetch an Amsden's June or a Georgia cling to his owny-own? The Kid's eye caught sight of a window that was lighted and gorgeous\nwith nature's most entrancing colors. The light suddenly went out.\nThe Kid sprinted and caught the fruiterer locking his door.", "words": 317}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Peaches?\" said he, with extreme deliberation. \"Well, no, Sir. Not for three or four weeks yet. I haven't any idea\nwhere you might find some. There may be a few in town from under\nthe glass, but they'd be hard to locate. Maybe at one of the more\nexpensive hotels--some place where there's plenty of money to waste.\nI've got some very fine oranges, though--from a shipload that came in\nto-day.\" The Kid lingered on the corner for a moment, and then set out briskly\ntoward a pair of green lights that flanked the steps of a building\ndown a dark side street. \"Captain around anywhere?\" he asked of the desk sergeant of the\npolice station. At that moment the captain came briskly forward from the rear. He was\nin plain clothes and had a busy air. \"Hello, Kid,\" he said to the pugilist. \"Thought you were\nbridal-touring? \"Got back yesterday. I'm a solid citizen now. Think I'll take an\ninterest in municipal doings. How would it suit you to get into\nDenver Dick's place to-night, Cap? \"Past performances,\" said the captain, twisting his moustache.\n\"Denver was closed up two months ago.\" \"Correct,\" said the Kid. \"Rafferty chased him out of the Forty-third.\nHe's running in your precinct now, and his game's bigger than ever.\nI'm down on this gambling business. I can put you against his game.\" \"In my precinct?\" growled the captain. \"Are you sure, Kid? I'll take\nit as a favor. Have you got the entr\u00e9e? How is it to be done?\" \"Hammers,\" said the Kid. \"They haven't got any steel on the doors\nyet. You'll need ten men. No, they won't let me in the place. Denver\nhas been trying to do me. He thought I tipped him off for the other\nraid. I didn't, though. You want to hurry. I've got to get back home.\nThe house is only three blocks from here.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Before ten minutes had sped the captain with a dozen men stole with\ntheir guide into the hallway of a dark and virtuous-looking building\nin which many businesses were conducted by day. \"Third floor, rear,\" said the Kid, softly. \"I'll lead the way.\" Two axemen faced the door that he pointed out to them. \"It seems all quiet,\" said the captain, doubtfully. \"Are you sure\nyour tip is straight?\" \"Cut away!\" said the Kid. \"It's on me if it ain't.\" The axes crashed through the as yet unprotected door. A blaze of\nlight from within poured through the smashed panels. The door fell,\nand the raiders sprang into the room with their guns handy. The big room was furnished with the gaudy magnificence dear to Denver\nDick's western ideas. Various well-patronized games were in progress.\nAbout fifty men who were in the room rushed upon the police in a\ngrand break for personal liberty. The plain-clothes men had to do a\nlittle club-swinging. More than half the patrons escaped. Denver Dick had graced his game with his own presence that night.\nHe led the rush that was intended to sweep away the smaller body of\nraiders, But when he saw the Kid his manner became personal. Being\nin the heavyweight class he cast himself joyfully upon his slighter\nenemy, and they rolled down a flight of stairs in each other's arms.\nOn the landing they separated and arose, and then the Kid was able to\nuse some of his professional tactics, which had been useless to him\nwhile in the excited clutch of a 200-pound sporting gentleman who was\nabout to lose $20,000 worth of paraphernalia. After vanquishing his adversary the Kid hurried upstairs and through\nthe gambling-room into a smaller apartment connecting by an arched\ndoorway.", "words": 297}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Here was a long table set with choicest chinaware and silver, and\nlavishly furnished with food of that expensive and spectacular sort\nof which the devotees of sport are supposed to be fond. Here again\nwas to be perceived the liberal and florid taste of the gentleman\nwith the urban cognomenal prefix. A No. 10 patent leather shoe protruded a few of its inches outside\nthe tablecloth along the floor. The Kid seized this and plucked forth\na black man in a white tie and the garb of a servitor. \"Get up!\" commanded the Kid. \"Are you in charge of this free lunch?\" \"Yes, sah, I was. Has they done pinched us ag'in, boss?\" \"Looks that way. Listen to me. Are there any peaches in this layout?\nIf there ain't I'll have to throw up the sponge.\" \"There was three dozen, sah, when the game opened this evenin'; but\nI reckon the gentlemen done eat 'em all up. If you'd like to eat a\nfust-rate orange, sah, I kin find you some.\" \"Get busy,\" ordered the Kid, sternly, \"and move whatever peach crop\nyou've got quick or there'll be trouble. If anybody oranges me again\nto-night, I'll knock his face off.\" The raid on Denver Dick's high-priced and prodigal luncheon revealed\none lone, last peach that had escaped the epicurean jaws of the\nfollowers of chance. Into the Kid's pocket it went, and that\nindefatigable forager departed immediately with his prize. With\nscarcely a glance at the scene on the sidewalk below, where the\nofficers were loading their prisoners into the patrol wagons, he\nmoved homeward with long, swift strides.", "words": 270}, {"story": 3, "title": "DOUGHERTY'S EYE-OPENER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "His heart was light as he went. So rode the knights back to Camelot\nafter perils and high deeds done for their ladies fair. The Kid's\nlady had commanded him and he had obeyed. True, it was but a peach\nthat she had craved; but it had been no small deed to glean a peach\nat midnight from that wintry city where yet the February snows lay\nlike iron. She had asked for a peach; she was his bride; in his\npocket the peach was warming in his hand that held it for fear that\nit might fall out and be lost. On the way the Kid turned in at an all-night drug store and said to\nthe spectacled clerk: \"Say, sport, I wish you'd size up this rib of mine and see if it's\nbroke. I was in a little scrap and bumped down a flight or two of\nstairs.\" The druggist made an examination. \"It isn't broken,\" was his\ndiagnosis, \"but you have a bruise there that looks like you'd fallen\noff the Flatiron twice.\" \"That's all right,\" said the Kid. \"Let's have your clothesbrush,\nplease.\" The bride waited in the rosy glow of the pink lamp shade. The\nmiracles were not all passed away. By breathing a desire for some\nslight thing--a flower, a pomegranate, a--oh, yes, a peach--she could\nsend forth her man into the night, into the world which could not\nwithstand him, and he would do her bidding. And now he stood by her chair and laid the peach in her hand. \"Naughty boy!\" she said, fondly. \"Did I say a peach? I think I would\nmuch rather have had an orange.\" Blest be the bride. VI", "words": 283}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Long before the springtide is felt in the dull bosom of the yokel\ndoes the city man know that the grass-green goddess is upon her\nthrone. He sits at his breakfast eggs and toast, begirt by stone\nwalls, opens his morning paper and sees journalism leave vernalism\nat the post. For, whereas, spring's couriers were once the evidence of our finer\nsenses, now the Associated Press does the trick. The warble of the first robin in Hackensack, the stirring of the\nmaple sap in Bennington, the budding of the pussy willows along Main\nStreet in Syracuse, the first chirp of the bluebird, the swan song of\nthe Blue Point, the annual tornado in St. Louis, the plaint of the\npeach pessimist from Pompton, N. J., the regular visit of the tame\nwild goose with a broken leg to the pond near Bilgewater Junction,\nthe base attempt of the Drug Trust to boost the price of quinine\nfoiled in the House by Congressman Jinks, the first tall poplar\nstruck by lightning and the usual stunned picknickers who had taken\nrefuge, the first crack of the ice jam in the Allegheny River, the\nfinding of a violet in its mossy bed by the correspondent at Round\nCorners--these are the advance signs of the burgeoning season that\nare wired into the wise city, while the farmer sees nothing but\nwinter upon his dreary fields. But these be mere externals. The true harbinger is the heart. When\nStrephon seeks his Chloe and Mike his Maggie, then only is spring\narrived and the newspaper report of the five-foot rattler killed in\nSquire Pettigrew's pasture confirmed.", "words": 270}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Ere the first violet blew, Mr. Peters, Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Kidd sat\ntogether on a bench in Union Square and conspired. Mr. Peters was the\nD'Artagnan of the loafers there. He was the dingiest, the laziest,\nthe sorriest brown blot against the green background of any bench in\nthe park. But just then he was the most important of the trio. Mr. Peters had a wife. This had not heretofore affected his standing\nwith Ragsy and Kidd. But to-day it invested him with a peculiar\ninterest. His friends, having escaped matrimony, had shown a\ndisposition to deride Mr. Peters for his venture on that troubled\nsea. But at last they had been forced to acknowledge that either\nhe had been gifted with a large foresight or that he was one of\nFortune's lucky sons. For, Mrs. Peters had a dollar. A whole dollar bill, good and\nreceivable by the Government for customs, taxes and all public\ndues. How to get possession of that dollar was the question up for\ndiscussion by the three musty musketeers. \"How do you know it was a dollar?\" asked Ragsy, the immensity of the\nsum inclining him to scepticism. \"The coalman seen her have it,\" said Mr. Peters. \"She went out\nand done some washing yesterday. And look what she give me for\nbreakfast--the heel of a loaf and a cup of coffee, and her with a\ndollar!\" \"It's fierce,\" said Ragsy. \"Say we go up and punch 'er and stick a towel in 'er mouth and cop\nthe coin\" suggested Kidd, viciously. \"Y' ain't afraid of a woman, are\nyou?\" \"She might holler and have us pinched,\" demurred Ragsy. \"I don't\nbelieve in slugging no woman in a houseful of people.\" \"Gent'men,\" said Mr. Peters, severely, through his russet stubble,\n\"remember that you are speaking of my wife. A man who would lift his\nhand to a lady except in the way of--\"", "words": 320}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Maguire,\" said Ragsy, pointedly, \"has got his bock beer sign out. If\nwe had a dollar we could--\" \"Hush up!\" said Mr. Peters, licking his lips. \"We got to get that\ncase note somehow, boys. Ain't what's a man's wife's his? Leave it to\nme. I'll go over to the house and get it. Wait here for me.\" \"I've seen 'em give up quick, and tell you where it's hid if you kick\n'em in the ribs,\" said Kidd. \"No man would kick a woman,\" said Peters, virtuously. \"A little\nchoking--just a touch on the windpipe--that gets away with 'em--and\nno marks left. Wait for me. I'll bring back that dollar, boys.\" High up in a tenement-house between Second Avenue and the river lived\nthe Peterses in a back room so gloomy that the landlord blushed to\ntake the rent for it. Mrs. Peters worked at sundry times, doing odd\njobs of scrubbing and washing. Mr. Peters had a pure, unbroken record\nof five years without having earned a penny. And yet they clung\ntogether, sharing each other's hatred and misery, being creatures\nof habit. Of habit, the power that keeps the earth from flying to\npieces; though there is some silly theory of gravitation. Mrs. Peters reposed her 200 pounds on the safer of the two chairs and\ngazed stolidly out the one window at the brick wall opposite. Her\neyes were red and damp. The furniture could have been carried away on\na pushcart, but no pushcart man would have removed it as a gift. The door opened to admit Mr. Peters. His fox-terrier eyes expressed\na wish. His wife's diagnosis located correctly the seat of it, but\nmisread it hunger instead of thirst. \"You'll get nothing more to eat till night,\" she said, looking out of\nthe window again. \"Take your hound-dog's face out of the room.\"", "words": 310}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Peters's eye calculated the distance between them. By taking her\nby surprise it might be possible to spring upon her, overthrow her,\nand apply the throttling tactics of which he had boasted to his\nwaiting comrades. True, it had been only a boast; never yet had he\ndared to lay violent hands upon her; but with the thoughts of the\ndelicious, cool bock or Culmbacher bracing his nerves, he was near\nto upsetting his own theories of the treatment due by a gentleman\nto a lady. But, with his loafer's love for the more artistic and\nless strenuous way, he chose diplomacy first, the high card in the\ngame--the assumed attitude of success already attained. \"You have a dollar,\" he said, loftily, but significantly in the tone\nthat goes with the lighting of a cigar--when the properties are at\nhand. \"I have,\" said Mrs. Peters, producing the bill from her bosom and\ncrackling it, teasingly. \"I am offered a position in a--in a tea store,\" said Mr. Peters. \"I\nam to begin work to-morrow. But it will be necessary for me to buy a\npair of--\" \"You are a liar,\" said Mrs. Peters, reinterring the note. \"No tea\nstore, nor no A B C store, nor no junk shop would have you. I rubbed\nthe skin off both me hands washin' jumpers and overalls to make that\ndollar. Do you think it come out of them suds to buy the kind you put\ninto you? Skiddoo! Get your mind off of money.\" Evidently the poses of Talleyrand were not worth one hundred cents on\nthat dollar. But diplomacy is dexterous. The artistic temperament of\nMr. Peters lifted him by the straps of his congress gaiters and set\nhim on new ground. He called up a look of desperate melancholy to his\neyes.", "words": 303}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Clara,\" he said, hollowly, \"to struggle further is useless. You have\nalways misunderstood me. Heaven knows I have striven with all my\nmight to keep my head above the waves of misfortune, but--\" \"Cut out the rainbow of hope and that stuff about walkin' one by one\nthrough the narrow isles of Spain,\" said Mrs. Peters, with a sigh.\n\"I've heard it so often. There's an ounce bottle of carbolic on the\nshelf behind the empty coffee can. Drink hearty.\" Mr. Peters reflected. What next! The old expedients had failed.\nThe two musty musketeers were awaiting him hard by the ruined\nch\u00e2teau--that is to say, on a park bench with rickety cast-iron\nlegs. His honor was at stake. He had engaged to storm the castle\nsingle-handed and bring back the treasure that was to furnish them\nwassail and solace. And all that stood between him and the coveted\ndollar was his wife, once a little girl whom he could--aha!--why not\nagain? Once with soft words he could, as they say, twist her around\nhis little finger. Why not again? Not for years had he tried it. Grim\npoverty and mutual hatred had killed all that. But Ragsy and Kidd\nwere waiting for him to bring the dollar! Mr. Peters took a surreptitiously keen look at his wife. Her formless\nbulk overflowed the chair. She kept her eyes fixed out the window in\na strange kind of trance. Her eyes showed that she had been recently\nweeping. \"I wonder,\" said Mr. Peters to himself, \"if there'd be anything in\nit.\"", "words": 259}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The window was open upon its outlook of brick walls and drab, barren\nback yards. Except for the mildness of the air that entered it might\nhave been midwinter yet in the city that turns such a frowning face\nto besieging spring. But spring doesn't come with the thunder of\ncannon. She is a sapper and a miner, and you must capitulate. \"I'll try it,\" said Mr. Peters to himself, making a wry face. He went up to his wife and put his arm across her shoulders. \"Clara, darling,\" he said in tones that shouldn't have fooled a\nbaby seal, \"why should we have hard words? Ain't you my own tootsum\nwootsum?\" A black mark against you, Mr. Peters, in the sacred ledger of Cupid.\nCharges of attempted graft are filed against you, and of forgery and\nutterance of two of Love's holiest of appellations. But the miracle of spring was wrought. Into the back room over the\nback alley between the black walls had crept the Harbinger. It was\nridiculous, and yet-- Well, it is a rat trap, and you, madam and sir\nand all of us, are in it. Red and fat and crying like Niobe or Niagara, Mrs. Peters threw her\narms around her lord and dissolved upon him. Mr. Peters would have\nstriven to extricate the dollar bill from its deposit vault, but his\narms were bound to his sides. \"Do you love me, James?\" asked Mrs. Peters. \"Madly,\" said James, \"but--\" \"You are ill!\" exclaimed Mrs. Peters. \"Why are you so pale and tired\nlooking?\" \"I feel weak,\" said Mr. Peters. \"I--\" \"Oh, wait; I know what it is. Wait, James. I'll be back in a minute.\" With a parting hug that revived in Mr. Peters recollections of the\nTerrible Turk, his wife hurried out of the room and down the stairs. Mr. Peters hitched his thumbs under his suspenders.", "words": 315}, {"story": 4, "title": "THE HARBINGER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"All right,\" he confided to the ceiling. \"I've got her going. I\nhadn't any idea the old girl was soft any more under the foolish rib.\nWell, sir; ain't I the Claude Melnotte of the lower East Side? What?\nIt's a 100 to 1 shot that I get the dollar. I wonder what she went\nout for. I guess she's gone to tell Mrs. Muldoon on the second floor,\nthat we're reconciled. I'll remember this. Soft soap! And Ragsy was\ntalking about slugging her!\" Mrs. Peters came back with a bottle of sarsaparilla. \"I'm glad I happened to have that dollar,\" she said. \"You're all run\ndown, honey.\" Mr. Peters had a tablespoonful of the stuff inserted into him. Then\nMrs. Peters sat on his lap and murmured: \"Call me tootsum wootsums again, James.\" He sat still, held there by his materialized goddess of spring. Spring had come. On the bench in Union Square Mr. Ragsdale and Mr. Kidd squirmed,\ntongue-parched, awaiting D'Artagnan and his dollar. \"I wish I had choked her at first,\" said Mr. Peters to himself. VII", "words": 180}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Promptly at the beginning of twilight, came again to that quiet\ncorner of that quiet, small park the girl in gray. She sat upon a\nbench and read a book, for there was yet to come a half hour in which\nprint could be accomplished. To repeat: Her dress was gray, and plain enough to mask its\nimpeccancy of style and fit. A large-meshed veil imprisoned her\nturban hat and a face that shone through it with a calm and\nunconscious beauty. She had come there at the same hour on the day\nprevious, and on the day before that; and there was one who knew it. The young man who knew it hovered near, relying upon burnt sacrifices\nto the great joss, Luck. His piety was rewarded, for, in turning a\npage, her book slipped from her fingers and bounded from the bench a\nfull yard away. The young man pounced upon it with instant avidity, returning it to\nits owner with that air that seems to flourish in parks and public\nplaces--a compound of gallantry and hope, tempered with respect\nfor the policeman on the beat. In a pleasant voice, he risked an\ninconsequent remark upon the weather--that introductory topic\nresponsible for so much of the world's unhappiness--and stood poised\nfor a moment, awaiting his fate. The girl looked him over leisurely; at his ordinary, neat dress\nand his features distinguished by nothing particular in the way of\nexpression. \"You may sit down, if you like,\" she said, in a full, deliberate\ncontralto. \"Really, I would like to have you do so. The light is too\nbad for reading. I would prefer to talk.\" The vassal of Luck slid upon the seat by her side with complaisance.", "words": 289}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Do you know,\" he said, speaking the formula with which park chairmen\nopen their meetings, \"that you are quite the stunningest girl I have\nseen in a long time? I had my eye on you yesterday. Didn't know\nsomebody was bowled over by those pretty lamps of yours, did you,\nhoneysuckle?\" \"Whoever you are,\" said the girl, in icy tones, \"you must remember\nthat I am a lady. I will excuse the remark you have just made because\nthe mistake was, doubtless, not an unnatural one--in your circle. I\nasked you to sit down; if the invitation must constitute me your\nhoneysuckle, consider it withdrawn.\" \"I earnestly beg your pardon,\" pleaded the young ran. His expression\nof satisfaction had changed to one of penitence and humility. \"It was\nmy fault, you know--I mean, there are girls in parks, you know--that\nis, of course, you don't know, but--\" \"Abandon the subject, if you please. Of course I know. Now, tell me\nabout these people passing and crowding, each way, along these paths.\nWhere are they going? Why do they hurry so? Are they happy?\" The young man had promptly abandoned his air of coquetry. His cue\nwas now for a waiting part; he could not guess the r\u00f4le he would be\nexpected to play. \"It IS interesting to watch them,\" he replied, postulating her mood.\n\"It is the wonderful drama of life. Some are going to supper and some\nto--er--other places. One wonders what their histories are.\" \"I do not,\" said the girl; \"I am not so inquisitive. I come here to\nsit because here, only, can I be near the great, common, throbbing\nheart of humanity. My part in life is cast where its beats are never\nfelt. Can you surmise why I spoke to you, Mr.--?\" \"Parkenstacker,\" supplied the young man. Then he looked eager and\nhopeful.", "words": 308}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"No,\" said the girl, holding up a slender finger, and smiling\nslightly. \"You would recognize it immediately. It is impossible to\nkeep one's name out of print. Or even one's portrait. This veil and\nthis hat of my maid furnish me with an _incog_. You should have seen\nthe chauffeur stare at it when he thought I did not see. Candidly,\nthere are five or six names that belong in the holy of holies, and\nmine, by the accident of birth, is one of them. I spoke to you, Mr.\nStackenpot--\" \"Parkenstacker,\" corrected the young man, modestly. \"--Mr. Parkenstacker, because I wanted to talk, for once, with a\nnatural man--one unspoiled by the despicable gloss of wealth and\nsupposed social superiority. Oh! you do not know how weary I am of\nit--money, money, money! And of the men who surround me, dancing\nlike little marionettes all cut by the same pattern. I am sick of\npleasure, of jewels, of travel, of society, of luxuries of all\nkinds.\" \"I always had an idea,\" ventured the young man, hesitatingly, \"that\nmoney must be a pretty good thing.\" \"A competence is to be desired. But when you have so many millions\nthat--!\" She concluded the sentence with a gesture of despair. \"It\nis the monotony of it,\" she continued, \"that palls. Drives, dinners,\ntheatres, balls, suppers, with the gilding of superfluous wealth over\nit all. Sometimes the very tinkle of the ice in my champagne glass\nnearly drives me mad.\" Mr. Parkenstacker looked ingenuously interested. \"I have always liked,\" he said, \"to read and hear about the ways of\nwealthy and fashionable folks. I suppose I am a bit of a snob. But I\nlike to have my information accurate. Now, I had formed the opinion\nthat champagn is cooled in the bottle and not by placing ice in the\nglass.\" The girl gave a musical laugh of genuine amusement.", "words": 317}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"You should know,\" she explained, in an indulgent tone, \"that we of\nthe non-useful class depend for our amusement upon departure from\nprecedent. Just now it is a fad to put ice in champagne. The idea\nwas originated by a visiting Prince of Tartary while dining at the\nWaldorf. It will soon give way to some other whim. Just as at a\ndinner party this week on Madison Avenue a green kid glove was\nlaid by the plate of each guest to be put on and used while eating\nolives.\" \"I see,\" admitted the young man, humbly. \"These special diversions of the inner circle do not become familiar\nto the common public.\" \"Sometimes,\" continued the girl, acknowledging his confession of\nerror by a slight bow, \"I have thought that if I ever should love a\nman it would be one of lowly station. One who is a worker and not\na drone. But, doubtless, the claims of caste and wealth will prove\nstronger than my inclination. Just now I am besieged by two. One is\na Grand Duke of a German principality. I think he has, or has had,\na wife, somewhere, driven mad by his intemperance and cruelty. The\nother is an English Marquis, so cold and mercenary that I even prefer\nthe diabolism of the Duke. What is it that impels me to tell you\nthese things, Mr. Packenstacker? \"Parkenstacker,\" breathed the young man. \"Indeed, you cannot know how\nmuch I appreciate your confidences.\" The girl contemplated him with the calm, impersonal regard that\nbefitted the difference in their stations. \"What is your line of business, Mr. Parkenstacker?\" she asked. \"A very humble one. But I hope to rise in the world. Were you\nreally in earnest when you said that you could love a man of lowly\nposition?\"", "words": 301}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Indeed I was. But I said 'might.' There is the Grand Duke and the\nMarquis, you know. Yes; no calling could be too humble were the man\nwhat I would wish him to be.\" \"I work,\" declared Mr. Parkenstacker, \"in a restaurant.\" The girl shrank slightly. \"Not as a waiter?\" she said, a little imploringly. \"Labor is noble,\nbut personal attendance, you know--valets and--\" \"I am not a waiter. I am cashier in\"--on the street they faced that\nbounded the opposite side of the park was the brilliant electric sign\n\"RESTAURANT\"--\"I am cashier in that restaurant you see there.\" The girl consulted a tiny watch set in a bracelet of rich design\nupon her left wrist, and rose, hurriedly. She thrust her book into a\nglittering reticule suspended from her waist, for which, however, the\nbook was too large. \"Why are you not at work?\" she asked. \"I am on the night turn,\" said the young man; \"it is yet an hour\nbefore my period begins. May I not hope to see you again?\" \"I do not know. Perhaps--but the whim may not seize me again. I must\ngo quickly now. There is a dinner, and a box at the play--and, oh!\nthe same old round. Perhaps you noticed an automobile at the upper\ncorner of the park as you came. One with a white body.\" \"And red running gear?\" asked the young man, knitting his brows\nreflectively. \"Yes. I always come in that. Pierre waits for me there. He supposes\nme to be shopping in the department store across the square.\nConceive of the bondage of the life wherein we must deceive even our\nchauffeurs. Good-night.\" \"But it is dark now,\" said Mr. Parkenstacker, \"and the park is full\nof rude men. May I not walk--\"", "words": 297}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"If you have the slightest regard for my wishes,\" said the girl,\nfirmly, \"you will remain at this bench for ten minutes after I have\nleft. I do not mean to accuse you, but you are probably aware that\nautos generally bear the monogram of their owner. Again, good-night.\" Swift and stately she moved away through the dusk. The young man\nwatched her graceful form as she reached the pavement at the park's\nedge, and turned up along it toward the corner where stood the\nautomobile. Then he treacherously and unhesitatingly began to dodge\nand skim among the park trees and shrubbery in a course parallel to\nher route, keeping her well in sight. When she reached the corner she turned her head to glance at the\nmotor car, and then passed it, continuing on across the street.\nSheltered behind a convenient standing cab, the young man followed\nher movements closely with his eyes. Passing down the sidewalk of the\nstreet opposite the park, she entered the restaurant with the blazing\nsign. The place was one of those frankly glaring establishments, all\nwhite paint and glass, where one may dine cheaply and conspicuously.\nThe girl penetrated the restaurant to some retreat at its rear,\nwhence she quickly emerged without her hat and veil. The cashier's desk was well to the front. A red-haired girl on the\nstool climbed down, glancing pointedly at the clock as she did so.\nThe girl in gray mounted in her place.", "words": 246}, {"story": 5, "title": "WHILE THE AUTO WAITS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The young man thrust his hands into his pockets and walked slowly\nback along the sidewalk. At the corner his foot struck a small,\npaper-covered volume lying there, sending it sliding to the edge of\nthe turf. By its picturesque cover he recognized it as the book the\ngirl had been reading. He picked it up carelessly, and saw that\nits title was \"New Arabian Nights,\" the author being of the name\nof Stevenson. He dropped it again upon the grass, and lounged,\nirresolute, for a minute. Then he stepped into the automobile,\nreclined upon the cushions, and said two words to the chauffeur: \"Club, Henri.\" VIII", "words": 107}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One may hope, in spite of the metaphorists, to avoid the breath of\nthe deadly upas tree; one may, by great good fortune, succeed in\nblacking the eye of the basilisk; one might even dodge the attentions\nof Cerberus and Argus, but no man, alive or dead, can escape the gaze\nof the Rubberer. New York is the Caoutchouc City. There are many, of course, who go\ntheir ways, making money, without turning to the right or the left,\nbut there is a tribe abroad wonderfully composed, like the Martians,\nsolely of eyes and means of locomotion. These devotees of curiosity swarm, like flies, in a moment in\na struggling, breathless circle about the scene of an unusual\noccurrence. If a workman opens a manhole, if a street car runs over\na man from North Tarrytown, if a little boy drops an egg on his\nway home from the grocery, if a casual house or two drops into the\nsubway, if a lady loses a nickel through a hole in the lisle thread,\nif the police drag a telephone and a racing chart forth from an Ibsen\nSociety reading-room, if Senator Depew or Mr. Chuck Connors walks out\nto take the air--if any of these incidents or accidents takes place,\nyou will see the mad, irresistible rush of the \"rubber\" tribe to the\nspot. The importance of the event does not count. They gaze with equal\ninterest and absorption at a chorus girl or at a man painting a\nliver pill sign. They will form as deep a cordon around a man with\na club-foot as they will around a balked automobile. They have the\nfuror rubberendi. They are optical gluttons, feasting and fattening\non the misfortunes of their fellow beings. They gloat and pore and\nglare and squint and stare with their fishy eyes like goggle-eyed\nperch at the book baited with calamity.", "words": 314}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It would seem that Cupid would find these ocular vampires too cold\ngame for his calorific shafts, but have we not yet to discover an\nimmune even among the Protozoa? Yes, beautiful Romance descended upon\ntwo of this tribe, and love came into their hearts as they crowded\nabout the prostrate form of a man who had been run over by a brewery\nwagon. William Pry was the first on the spot. He was an expert at such\ngatherings. With an expression of intense happiness on his features,\nhe stood over the victim of the accident, listening to his groans as\nif to the sweetest music. When the crowd of spectators had swelled to\na closely packed circle William saw a violent commotion in the crowd\nopposite him. Men were hurled aside like ninepins by the impact of\nsome moving body that clove them like the rush of a tornado. With\nelbows, umbrella, hat-pin, tongue, and fingernails doing their duty,\nViolet Seymour forced her way through the mob of onlookers to the\nfirst row. Strong men who even had been able to secure a seat on\nthe 5.30 Harlem express staggered back like children as she bucked\ncentre. Two large lady spectators who had seen the Duke of Roxburgh\nmarried and had often blocked traffic on Twenty-third Street fell\nback into the second row with ripped shirtwaists when Violet had\nfinished with them. William Pry loved her at first sight.", "words": 240}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The ambulance removed the unconscious agent of Cupid. William and\nViolet remained after the crowd had dispersed. They were true\nRubberers. People who leave the scene of an accident with the\nambulance have not genuine caoutchouc in the cosmogony of their\nnecks. The delicate, fine flavour of the affair is to be had only\nin the after-taste--in gloating over the spot, in gazing fixedly at\nthe houses opposite, in hovering there in a dream more exquisite\nthan the opium-eater's ecstasy. William Pry and Violet Seymour were\nconnoisseurs in casualties. They knew how to extract full enjoyment\nfrom every incident. Presently they looked at each other. Violet had a brown birthmark on\nher neck as large as a silver half-dollar. William fixed his eyes\nupon it. William Pry had inordinately bowed legs. Violet allowed her\ngaze to linger unswervingly upon them. Face to face they stood thus\nfor moments, each staring at the other. Etiquette would not allow\nthem to speak; but in the Caoutchouc City it is permitted to gaze\nwithout stint at the trees in the parks and at the physical blemishes\nof a fellow creature. At length with a sigh they parted. But Cupid had been the driver of\nthe brewery wagon, and the wheel that broke a leg united two fond\nhearts.", "words": 215}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The next meeting of the hero and heroine was in front of a board\nfence near Broadway. The day had been a disappointing one. There had\nbeen no fights on the street, children had kept from under the wheels\nof the street cars, cripples and fat men in neglig\u00e9e shirts were\nscarce; nobody seemed to be inclined to slip on banana peels or fall\ndown with heart disease. Even the sport from Kokomo, Ind., who claims\nto be a cousin of ex-Mayor Low and scatters nickels from a cab\nwindow, had not put in his appearance. There was nothing to stare at,\nand William Pry had premonitions of ennui. But he saw a large crowd scrambling and pushing excitedly in front\nof a billboard. Sprinting for it, he knocked down an old woman and a\nchild carrying a bottle of milk, and fought his way like a demon\ninto the mass of spectators. Already in the inner line stood Violet\nSeymour with one sleeve and two gold fillings gone, a corset steel\npuncture and a sprained wrist, but happy. She was looking at what\nthere was to see. A man was painting upon the fence: \"Eat Bricklets\n--They Fill Your Face.\" Violet blushed when she saw William Pry. William jabbed a lady in a\nblack silk raglan in the ribs, kicked a boy in the shin, bit an old\ngentleman on the left ear and managed to crowd nearer to Violet.\nThey stood for an hour looking at the man paint the letters. Then\nWilliam's love could be repressed no longer. He touched her on the\narm. \"Come with me,\" he said. \"I know where there is a bootblack without\nan Adam's apple.\" She looked up at him shyly, yet with unmistakable love transfiguring\nher countenance. \"And you have saved it for me?\" she asked, trembling with the first\ndim ecstasy of a woman beloved.", "words": 315}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Together they hurried to the bootblack's stand. An hour they spent\nthere gazing at the malformed youth. A window-cleaner fell from the fifth story to the sidewalk beside\nthem. As the ambulance came clanging up William pressed her hand\njoyously. \"Four ribs at least and a compound fracture,\" he whispered,\nswiftly. \"You are not sorry that you met me, are you, dearest? \"Me?\" said Violet, returning the pressure. \"Sure not. I could stand\nall day rubbering with you.\" The climax of the romance occurred a few days later. Perhaps the\nreader will remember the intense excitement into which the city was\nthrown when Eliza Jane, a colored woman, was served with a subpoena.\nThe Rubber Tribe encamped on the spot. With his own hands William Pry\nplaced a board upon two beer kegs in the street opposite Eliza Jane's\nresidence. He and Violet sat there for three days and nights. Then it\noccurred to a detective to open the door and serve the subpoena. He\nsent for a kinetoscope and did so. Two souls with such congenial tastes could not long remain apart. As\na policeman drove them away with his night stick that evening they\nplighted their troth. The seeds of love had been well sown, and had\ngrown up, hardy and vigorous, into a--let us call it a rubber plant.", "words": 222}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The wedding of William Pry and Violet Seymour was set for June 10.\nThe Big Church in the Middle of the Block was banked high with\nflowers. The populous tribe of Rubberers the world over is rampant\nover weddings. They are the pessimists of the pews. They are the\nguyers of the groom and the banterers of the bride. They come to\nlaugh at your marriage, and should you escape from Hymen's tower on\nthe back of death's pale steed they will come to the funeral and sit\nin the same pew and cry over your luck. Rubber will stretch. The church was lighted. A grosgrain carpet lay over the asphalt to\nthe edge of the sidewalk. Bridesmaids were patting one another's\nsashes awry and speaking of the Bride's freckles. Coachmen tied white\nribbons on their whips and bewailed the space of time between drinks.\nThe minister was musing over his possible fee, essaying conjecture\nwhether it would suffice to purchase a new broadcloth suit for\nhimself and a photograph of Laura Jane Libbey for his wife. Yea,\nCupid was in the air. And outside the church, oh, my brothers, surged and heaved the rank\nand file of the tribe of Rubberers. In two bodies they were, with\nthe grosgrain carpet and cops with clubs between. They crowded like\ncattle, they fought, they pressed and surged and swayed and trampled\none another to see a bit of a girl in a white veil acquire license to\ngo through a man's pockets while he sleeps.", "words": 254}, {"story": 6, "title": "A COMEDY IN RUBBER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But the hour for the wedding came and went, and the bride and\nbridegroom came not. And impatience gave way to alarm and alarm\nbrought about search, and they were not found. And then two big\npolicemen took a hand and dragged out of the furious mob of onlookers\na crushed and trampled thing, with a wedding ring in its vest pocket\nand a shredded and hysterical woman beating her way to the carpet's\nedge, ragged, bruised and obstreperous. William Pry and Violet Seymour, creatures of habit, had joined in the\nseething game of the spectators, unable to resist the overwhelming\ndesire to gaze upon themselves entering, as bride and bridegroom, the\nrose-decked church. Rubber will out. IX", "words": 118}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"One thousand dollars,\" repeated Lawyer Tolman, solemnly and\nseverely, \"and here is the money.\" Young Gillian gave a decidedly amused laugh as he fingered the thin\npackage of new fifty-dollar notes. \"It's such a confoundedly awkward amount,\" he explained, genially, to\nthe lawyer. \"If it had been ten thousand a fellow might wind up with\na lot of fireworks and do himself credit. Even fifty dollars would\nhave been less trouble.\" \"You heard the reading of your uncle's will,\" continued Lawyer\nTolman, professionally dry in his tones. \"I do not know if you paid\nmuch attention to its details. I must remind you of one. You are\nrequired to render to us an account of the manner of expenditure of\nthis $1,000 as soon as you have disposed of it. The will stipulates\nthat. I trust that you will so far comply with the late Mr. Gillian's\nwishes.\" \"You may depend upon it,\" said the young man. politely, \"in spite of\nthe extra expense it will entail. I may have to engage a secretary. I\nwas never good at accounts.\" Gillian went to his club. There he hunted out one whom he called Old\nBryson. Old Bryson was calm and forty and sequestered. He was in a corner\nreading a book, and when he saw Gillian approaching he sighed, laid\ndown his book and took off his glasses. \"Old Bryson, wake up,\" said Gillian. \"I've a funny story to tell\nyou.\" \"I wish you would tell it to some one in the billiard room,\" said Old\nBryson. \"You know how I hate your stories.\"", "words": 264}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"This is a better one than usual,\" said Gillian, rolling a cigarette;\n\"and I'm glad to tell it to you. It's too sad and funny to go with\nthe rattling of billiard balls. I've just come from my late uncle's\nfirm of legal corsairs. He leaves me an even thousand dollars. Now,\nwhat can a man possibly do with a thousand dollars?\" \"I thought,\" said Old Bryson, showing as much interest as a bee\nshows in a vinegar cruet, \"that the late Septimus Gillian was worth\nsomething like half a million.\" \"He was,\" assented Gillian, joyously, \"and that's where the joke\ncomes in. He's left his whole cargo of doubloons to a microbe. That\nis, part of it goes to the man who invents a new bacillus and the\nrest to establish a hospital for doing away with it again. There\nare one or two trifling bequests on the side. The butler and the\nhousekeeper get a seal ring and $10 each. His nephew gets $1,000.\" \"You've always had plenty of money to spend,\" observed Old Bryson. \"Tons,\" said Gillian. \"Uncle was the fairy godmother as far as an\nallowance was concerned.\" \"Any other heirs?\" asked Old Bryson. \"None.\" Gillian frowned at his cigarette and kicked the upholstered\nleather of a divan uneasily. \"There is a Miss Hayden, a ward of my\nuncle, who lived in his house. She's a quiet thing--musical--the\ndaughter of somebody who was unlucky enough to be his friend. I\nforgot to say that she was in on the seal ring and $10 joke, too. I\nwish I had been. Then I could have had two bottles of brut, tipped\nthe waiter with the ring and had the whole business off my hands.\nDon't be superior and insulting, Old Bryson--tell me what a fellow\ncan do with a thousand dollars.\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Old Bryson rubbed his glasses and smiled. And when Old Bryson smiled,\nGillian knew that he intended to be more offensive than ever. \"A thousand dollars,\" he said, \"means much or little. One man may buy\na happy home with it and laugh at Rockefeller. Another could send\nhis wife South with it and save her life. A thousand dollars would\nbuy pure milk for one hundred babies during June, July, and August\nand save fifty of their lives. You could count upon a half hour's\ndiversion with it at faro in one of the fortified art galleries.\nIt would furnish an education to an ambitious boy. I am told\nthat a genuine Corot was secured for that amount in an auction\nroom yesterday. You could move to a New Hampshire town and live\nrespectably two years on it. You could rent Madison Square Garden for\none evening with it, and lecture your audience, if you should have\none, on the precariousness of the profession of heir presumptive.\" \"People might like you, Old Bryson,\" said Gillian, always unruffled,\n\"if you wouldn't moralize. I asked you to tell me what I could do\nwith a thousand dollars.\" \"You?\" said Bryson, with a gentle laugh. \"Why, Bobby Gillian, there's\nonly one logical thing you could do. You can go buy Miss Lotta\nLauriere a diamond pendant with the money, and then take yourself off\nto Idaho and inflict your presence upon a ranch. I advise a sheep\nranch, as I have a particular dislike for sheep.\" \"Thanks,\" said Gillian, rising, \"I thought I could depend upon you,\nOld Bryson. You've hit on the very scheme. I wanted to chuck the\nmoney in a lump, for I've got to turn in an account for it, and I\nhate itemizing.\" Gillian phoned for a cab and said to the driver: \"The stage entrance of the Columbine Theatre.\"", "words": 313}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Miss Lotta Lauriere was assisting nature with a powder puff, almost\nready for her call at a crowded matin\u00e9e, when her dresser mentioned\nthe name of Mr. Gillian. \"Let it in,\" said Miss Lauriere. \"Now, what is it, Bobby? I'm going\non in two minutes.\" \"Rabbit-foot your right ear a little,\" suggested Gillian, critically.\n\"That's better. It won't take two minutes for me. What do you say to\na little thing in the pendant line? I can stand three ciphers with a\nfigure one in front of 'em.\" \"Oh, just as you say,\" carolled Miss Lauriere. \"My right glove,\nAdams. Say, Bobby, did you see that necklace Della Stacey had on the\nother night? Twenty-two hundred dollars it cost at Tiffany's. But, of\ncourse--pull my sash a little to the left, Adams.\" \"Miss Lauriere for the opening chorus!\" cried the call boy without. Gillian strolled out to where his cab was waiting. \"What would you do with a thousand dollars if you had it?\" he asked\nthe driver. \"Open a s'loon,\" said the cabby, promptly and huskily. \"I know a\nplace I could take money in with both hands. It's a four-story\nbrick on a corner. I've got it figured out. Second story--Chinks\nand chop suey; third floor--manicures and foreign missions; fourth\nfloor--poolroom. If you was thinking of putting up the cap--\" \"Oh, no,\" said Gillian, \"I merely asked from curiosity. I take you\nby the hour. Drive 'til I tell you to stop.\" Eight blocks down Broadway Gillian poked up the trap with his cane\nand got out. A blind man sat upon a stool on the sidewalk selling\npencils. Gillian went out and stood before him. \"Excuse me,\" he said, \"but would you mind telling me what you would\ndo if you had a thousand dollars?\" \"You got out of that cab that just drove up, didn't you?\" asked the\nblind man. \"I did,\" said Gillian.", "words": 318}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I guess you are all right,\" said the pencil dealer, \"to ride in a\ncab by daylight. Take a look at that, if you like.\" He drew a small book from his coat pocket and held it out. Gillian\nopened it and saw that it was a bank deposit book. It showed a\nbalance of $1,785 to the blind man's credit. Gillian returned the book and got into the cab. \"I forgot something,\" he said. \"You may drive to the law offices of\nTolman & Sharp, at ---- Broadway.\" Lawyer Tolman looked at him hostilely and inquiringly through his\ngold-rimmed glasses. \"I beg your pardon,\" said Gillian, cheerfully, \"but may I ask you a\nquestion? It is not an impertinent one, I hope. Was Miss Hayden left\nanything by my uncle's will besides the ring and the $10?\" \"Nothing,\" said Mr. Tolman. \"I thank you very much, sir,\" said Gillian, and on he went to his\ncab. He gave the driver the address of his late uncle's home. Miss Hayden was writing letters in the library. She was small and\nslender and clothed in black. But you would have noticed her eyes.\nGillian drifted in with his air of regarding the world as\ninconsequent. \"I've just come from old Tolman's,\" he explained. \"They've been\ngoing over the papers down there. They found a--Gillian searched his\nmemory for a legal term--they found an amendment or a post-script\nor something to the will. It seemed that the old boy loosened up a\nlittle on second thoughts and willed you a thousand dollars. I was\ndriving up this way and Tolman asked me to bring you the money. Here\nit is. You'd better count it to see if it's right.\" Gillian laid the\nmoney beside her hand on the desk. Miss Hayden turned white. \"Oh!\" she said, and again \"Oh!\" Gillian half turned and looked out the window.", "words": 315}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I suppose, of course,\" he said, in a low voice, \"that you know I\nlove you.\" \"I am sorry,\" said Miss Hayden, taking up her money. \"There is no use?\" asked Gillian, almost light-heartedly. \"I am sorry,\" she said again. \"May I write a note?\" asked Gillian, with a smile, He seated himself\nat the big library table. She supplied him with paper and pen, and\nthen went back to her secr\u00e9taire. Gillian made out his account of his expenditure of the thousand\ndollars in these words: \"Paid by the black sheep, Robert Gillian, $1,000 on account of the\neternal happiness, owed by Heaven to the best and dearest woman on\nearth.\" Gillian slipped his writing into an envelope, bowed and went his way. His cab stopped again at the offices of Tolman & Sharp. \"I have expended the thousand dollars,\" he said cheerily, to Tolman\nof the gold glasses, \"and I have come to render account of it, as I\nagreed. There is quite a feeling of summer in the air--do you not\nthink so, Mr. Tolman?\" He tossed a white envelope on the lawyer's\ntable. \"You will find there a memorandum, sir, of the _modus\noperandi_ of the vanishing of the dollars.\" Without touching the envelope, Mr. Tolman went to a door and called\nhis partner, Sharp. Together they explored the caverns of an immense\nsafe. Forth they dragged, as trophy of their search a big envelope\nsealed with wax. This they forcibly invaded, and wagged their\nvenerable heads together over its contents. Then Tolman became\nspokesman.", "words": 259}, {"story": 7, "title": "ONE THOUSAND DOLLARS", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Mr. Gillian,\" he said, formally, \"there was a codicil to your\nuncle's will. It was intrusted to us privately, with instructions\nthat it be not opened until you had furnished us with a full account\nof your handling of the $1,000 bequest in the will. As you have\nfulfilled the conditions, my partner and I have read the codicil.\nI do not wish to encumber your understanding with its legal\nphraseology, but I will acquaint you with the spirit of its contents. \"In the event that your disposition of the $1,000 demonstrates that\nyou possess any of the qualifications that deserve reward, much\nbenefit will accrue to you. Mr. Sharp and I are named as the judges,\nand I assure you that we will do our duty strictly according to\njustice--with liberality. We are not at all unfavorably disposed\ntoward you, Mr. Gillian. But let us return to the letter of the\ncodicil. If your disposal of the money in question has been prudent,\nwise, or unselfish, it is in our power to hand you over bonds to\nthe value of $50,000, which have been placed in our hands for that\npurpose. But if--as our client, the late Mr. Gillian, explicitly\nprovides--you have used this money as you have money in the past,\nI quote the late Mr. Gillian--in reprehensible dissipation among\ndisreputable associates--the $50,000 is to be paid to Miriam\nHayden, ward of the late Mr. Gillian, without delay. Now, Mr.\nGillian, Mr. Sharp and I will examine your account in regard to the\n$1,000. You submit it in writing, I believe. I hope you will repose\nconfidence in our decision.\" Mr. Tolman reached for the envelope. Gillian was a little the quicker\nin taking it up. He tore the account and its cover leisurely into\nstrips and dropped them into his pocket.", "words": 304}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Robert Walmsley's descent upon the city resulted in a Kilkenny\nstruggle. He came out of the fight victor by a fortune and a\nreputation. On the other hand, he was swallowed up by the city. The\ncity gave him what he demanded and then branded him with its brand.\nIt remodelled, cut, trimmed and stamped him to the pattern it\napproves. It opened its social gates to him and shut him in on a\nclose-cropped, formal lawn with the select herd of ruminants. In\ndress, habits, manners, provincialism, routine and narrowness he\nacquired that charming insolence, that irritating completeness, that\nsophisticated crassness, that overbalanced poise that makes the\nManhattan gentleman so delightfully small in his greatness. One of the up-state rural counties pointed with pride to the\nsuccessful young metropolitan lawyer as a product of its soil. Six\nyears earlier this county had removed the wheat straw from between\nits huckleberry-stained teeth and emitted a derisive and bucolic\nlaugh as old man Walmsley's freckle-faced \"Bob\" abandoned the certain\nthree-per-diem meals of the one-horse farm for the discontinuous\nquick lunch counters of the three-ringed metropolis. At the end of\nthe six years no murder trial, coaching party, automobile accident or\ncotillion was complete in which the name of Robert Walmsley did not\nfigure. Tailors waylaid him in the street to get a new wrinkle from\nthe cut of his unwrinkled trousers. Hyphenated fellows in the clubs\nand members of the oldest subpoenaed families were glad to clap him\non the back and allow him three letters of his name.", "words": 258}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But the Matterhorn of Robert Walmsley's success was not scaled until\nhe married Alicia Van Der Pool. I cite the Matterhorn, for just so\nhigh and cool and white and inaccessible was this daughter of the\nold burghers. The social Alps that ranged about her over whose bleak\npasses a thousand climbers struggled--reached only to her knees. She\ntowered in her own atmosphere, serene, chaste, prideful, wading in no\nfountains, dining no monkeys, breeding no dogs for bench shows. She\nwas a Van Der Pool. Fountains were made to play for her; monkeys were\nmade for other people's ancestors; dogs, she understood, were created\nto be companions of blind persons and objectionable characters who\nsmoked pipes. This was the Matterhorn that Robert Walmsley accomplished. If he\nfound, with the good poet with the game foot and artificially curled\nhair, that he who ascends to mountain tops will find the loftiest\npeaks most wrapped in clouds and snow, he concealed his chilblains\nbeneath a brave and smiling exterior. He was a lucky man and knew\nit, even though he were imitating the Spartan boy with an ice-cream\nfreezer beneath his doublet frapp\u00e9eing the region of his heart. After a brief wedding tour abroad, the couple returned to create a\ndecided ripple in the calm cistern (so placid and cool and sunless\nit is) of the best society. They entertained at their red brick\nmausoleum of ancient greatness in an old square that is a cemetery of\ncrumbled glory. And Robert Walmsley was proud of his wife; although\nwhile one of his hands shook his guests' the other held tightly to\nhis alpenstock and thermometer.", "words": 273}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One day Alicia found a letter written to Robert by his mother. It was\nan unerudite letter, full of crops and motherly love and farm notes.\nIt chronicled the health of the pig and the recent red calf, and\nasked concerning Robert's in return. It was a letter direct from\nthe soil, straight from home, full of biographies of bees, tales of\nturnips, p\u00e6ans of new-laid eggs, neglected parents and the slump in\ndried apples. \"Why have I not been shown your mother's letters?\" asked Alicia.\nThere was always something in her voice that made you think of\nlorgnettes, of accounts at Tiffany's, of sledges smoothly gliding\non the trail from Dawson to Forty Mile, of the tinkling of pendant\nprisms on your grandmothers' chandeliers, of snow lying on a convent\nroof; of a police sergeant refusing bail. \"Your mother,\" continued\nAlicia, \"invites us to make a visit to the farm. I have never seen a\nfarm. We will go there for a week or two, Robert.\" \"We will,\" said Robert, with the grand air of an associate Supreme\nJustice concurring in an opinion. \"I did not lay the invitation\nbefore you because I thought you would not care to go. I am much\npleased at your decision.\" \"I will write to her myself,\" answered Alicia, with a faint\nforeshadowing of enthusiasm. \"F\u00e9lice shall pack my trunks at once.\nSeven, I think, will be enough. I do not suppose that your mother\nentertains a great deal. Does she give many house parties?\" Robert arose, and as attorney for rural places filed a demurrer\nagainst six of the seven trunks. He endeavored to define, picture,\nelucidate, set forth and describe a farm. His own words sounded\nstrange in his ears. He had not realized how thoroughly urbsidized\nhe had become.", "words": 299}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A week passed and found them landed at the little country station\nfive hours out from the city. A grinning, stentorian, sarcastic youth\ndriving a mule to a spring wagon hailed Robert savagely. \"Hallo, Mr. Walmsley. Found your way back at last, have you? Sorry\nI couldn't bring in the automobile for you, but dad's bull-tonguing\nthe ten-acre clover patch with it to-day. Guess you'll excuse my not\nwearing a dress suit over to meet you--it ain't six o'clock yet, you\nknow.\" \"I'm glad to see you, Tom,\" said Robert, grasping his brother's hand.\n\"Yes, I've found my way at last. You've a right to say 'at last.'\nIt's been over two years since the last time. But it will be oftener\nafter this, my boy.\" Alicia, cool in the summer heat as an Arctic wraith, white as a\nNorse snow maiden in her flimsy muslin and fluttering lace parasol,\ncame round the corner of the station; and Tom was stripped of his\nassurance. He became chiefly eyesight clothed in blue jeans, and on\nthe homeward drive to the mule alone did he confide in language the\ninwardness of his thoughts. They drove homeward. The low sun dropped a spendthrift flood of gold\nupon the fortunate fields of wheat. The cities were far away. The\nroad lay curling around wood and dale and hill like a ribbon lost\nfrom the robe of careless summer. The wind followed like a whinnying\ncolt in the track of Phoebus's steeds.", "words": 247}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "By and by the farmhouse peeped gray out of its faithful grove; they\nsaw the long lane with its convoy of walnut trees running from the\nroad to the house; they smelled the wild rose and the breath of cool,\ndamp willows in the creek's bed. And then in unison all the voices of\nthe soil began a chant addressed to the soul of Robert Walmsley. Out\nof the tilted aisles of the dim wood they came hollowly; they chirped\nand buzzed from the parched grass; they trilled from the ripples\nof the creek ford; they floated up in clear Pan's pipe notes from\nthe dimming meadows; the whippoorwills joined in as they pursued\nmidges in the upper air; slow-going cow-bells struck out a homely\naccompaniment--and this was what each one said: \"You've found your\nway back at last, have you?\" The old voices of the soil spoke to him. Leaf and bud and blossom\nconversed with him in the old vocabulary of his careless youth--the\ninanimate things, the familiar stones and rails, the gates and\nfurrows and roofs and turns of the road had an eloquence, too, and a\npower in the transformation. The country had smiled and he had felt\nthe breath of it, and his heart was drawn as if in a moment back to\nhis old love. The city was far away. This rural atavism, then, seized Robert Walmsley and possessed him. A\nqueer thing he noticed in connection with it was that Alicia, sitting\nat his side, suddenly seemed to him a stranger. She did not belong\nto this recurrent phase. Never before had she seemed so remote, so\ncolorless and high--so intangible and unreal. And yet he had never\nadmired her more than when she sat there by him in the rickety spring\nwagon, chiming no more with his mood and with her environment than\nthe Matterhorn chimes with a peasant's cabbage garden.", "words": 319}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "That night when the greetings and the supper were over, the entire\nfamily, including Buff, the yellow dog, bestrewed itself upon the\nfront porch. Alicia, not haughty but silent, sat in the shadow\ndressed in an exquisite pale-gray tea gown. Robert's mother\ndiscoursed to her happily concerning marmalade and lumbago. Tom sat\non the top step; Sisters Millie and Pam on the lowest step to catch\nthe lightning bugs. Mother had the willow rocker. Father sat in the\nbig armchair with one of its arms gone. Buff sprawled in the middle\nof the porch in everybody's way. The twilight pixies and pucks stole\nforth unseen and plunged other poignant shafts of memory into the\nheart of Robert. A rural madness entered his soul. The city was far\naway. Father sat without his pipe, writhing in his heavy boots, a sacrifice\nto rigid courtesy. Robert shouted: \"No, you don't!\" He fetched the\npipe and lit it; he seized the old gentleman's boots and tore them\noff. The last one slipped suddenly, and Mr. Robert Walmsley, of\nWashington Square, tumbled off the porch backward with Buff on top of\nhim, howling fearfully. Tom laughed sarcastically. Robert tore off his coat and vest and hurled them into a lilac bush. \"Come out here, you landlubber,\" he cried to Tom, \"and I'll put grass\nseed on your back. I think you called me a 'dude' a while ago. Come\nalong and cut your capers.\"", "words": 240}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Tom understood the invitation and accepted it with delight. Three\ntimes they wrestled on the grass, \"side holds,\" even as the giants of\nthe mat. And twice was Tom forced to bite grass at the hands of the\ndistinguished lawyer. Dishevelled, panting, each still boasting of\nhis own prowess, they stumbled back to the porch. Millie cast a pert\nreflection upon the qualities of a city brother. In an instant Robert\nhad secured a horrid katydid in his fingers and bore down upon her.\nScreaming wildly, she fled up the lane, pursued by the avenging glass\nof form. A quarter of a mile and they returned, she full of apology\nto the victorious \"dude.\" The rustic mania possessed him unabatedly. \"I can do up a cowpenful of you slow hayseeds,\" he proclaimed,\nvaingloriously. \"Bring on your bulldogs, your hired men and your\nlog-rollers.\" He turned handsprings on the grass that prodded Tom to envious\nsarcasm. And then, with a whoop, he clattered to the rear and brought\nback Uncle Ike, a battered colored retainer of the family, with his\nbanjo, and strewed sand on the porch and danced \"Chicken in the\nBread Tray\" and did buck-and-wing wonders for half an hour longer.\nIncredibly, wild and boisterous things he did. He sang, he told\nstories that set all but one shrieking, he played the yokel, the\nhumorous clodhopper; he was mad, mad with the revival of the old life\nin his blood. He became so extravagant that once his mother sought gently to\nreprove him. Then Alicia moved as though she were about to speak, but\nshe did not. Through it all she sat immovable, a slim, white spirit\nin the dusk that no man might question or read.", "words": 288}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "By and by she asked permission to ascend to her room, saying that she\nwas tired. On her way she passed Robert. He was standing in the door,\nthe figure of vulgar comedy, with ruffled hair, reddened face and\nunpardonable confusion of attire--no trace there of the immaculate\nRobert Walmsley, the courted clubman and ornament of select circles.\nHe was doing a conjuring trick with some household utensils, and the\nfamily, now won over to him without exception, was beholding him with\nworshipful admiration. As Alicia passed in Robert started suddenly. He had forgotten for\nthe moment that she was present. Without a glance at him she went on\nupstairs. After that the fun grew quiet. An hour passed in talk, and then\nRobert went up himself. She was standing by the window when he entered their room. She was\nstill clothed as when they were on the porch. Outside and crowding\nagainst the window was a giant apple tree, full blossomed. Robert sighed and went near the window. He was ready to meet his\nfate. A confessed vulgarian, he foresaw the verdict of justice in\nthe shape of that whiteclad form. He knew the rigid lines that a Van\nDer Pool would draw. He was a peasant gambolling indecorously in the\nvalley, and the pure, cold, white, unthawed summit of the Matterhorn\ncould not but frown on him. He had been unmasked by his own actions.\nAll the polish, the poise, the form that the city had given him had\nfallen from him like an ill-fitting mantle at the first breath of a\ncountry breeze. Dully he awaited the approaching condemnation. \"Robert,\" said the calm, cool voice of his judge, \"I thought I\nmarried a gentleman.\"", "words": 287}, {"story": 8, "title": "THE DEFEAT OF THE CITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Yes, it was coming. And yet, in the face of it, Robert Walmsley was\neagerly regarding a certain branch of the apple tree upon which\nhe used to climb out of that very window. He believed he could do\nit now. He wondered how many blossoms there were on the tree--ten\nmillions? But here was some one speaking again: \"I thought I married a gentleman,\" the voice went on, \"but--\" Why had she come and was standing so close by his side? \"But I find that I have married\"--was this Alicia\ntalking?--\"something better--a man--Bob, dear, kiss me, won't you?\" The city was far away. XI", "words": 105}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There is an aristocracy of the public parks and even of the vagabonds\nwho use them for their private apartments. Vallance felt rather than\nknew this, but when he stepped down out of his world into chaos his\nfeet brought him directly to Madison Square. Raw and astringent as a schoolgirl--of the old order--young May\nbreathed austerely among the budding trees. Vallance buttoned his\ncoat, lighted his last cigarette and took his seat upon a bench.\nFor three minutes he mildly regretted the last hundred of his last\nthousand that it had cost him when the bicycle cop put an end to\nhis last automobile ride. Then he felt in every pocket and found\nnot a single penny. He had given up his apartment that morning. His\nfurniture had gone toward certain debts. His clothes, save what were\nupon him, had descended to his man-servant for back wages. As he sat\nthere was not in the whole city for him a bed or a broiled lobster\nor a street-car fare or a carnation for buttonhole unless he should\nobtain them by sponging on his friends or by false pretenses.\nTherefore he had chosen the park. And all this was because an uncle had disinherited him, and cut down\nhis allowance from liberality to nothing. And all that was because\nhis nephew had disobeyed him concerning a certain girl, who comes not\ninto this story--therefore, all readers who brush their hair toward\nits roots may be warned to read no further. There was another nephew,\nof a different branch, who had once been the prospective heir and\nfavorite. Being without grace or hope, he had long ago disappeared in\nthe mire. Now dragnets were out for him; he was to be rehabilitated\nand restored. And so Vallance fell grandly as Lucifer to the lowest\npit, joining the tattered ghosts in the little park.", "words": 312}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Sitting there, he leaned far back on the hard bench and laughed a\njet of cigarette smoke up to the lowest tree branches. The sudden\nsevering of all his life's ties had brought him a free, thrilling,\nalmost joyous elation. He felt precisely the sensation of the\naeronaut when he cuts loose his parachute and lets his balloon drift\naway. The hour was nearly ten. Not many loungers were on the benches. The\npark-dweller, though a stubborn fighter against autumnal coolness, is\nslow to attack the advance line of spring's chilly cohorts. Then arose one from a seat near the leaping fountain, and came and\nsat himself at Vallance's side. He was either young or old; cheap\nlodging-houses had flavoured him mustily; razors and combs had passed\nhim by; in him drink had been bottled and sealed in the devil's bond.\nHe begged a match, which is the form of introduction among park\nbenchers, and then he began to talk. \"You're not one of the regulars,\" he said to Vallance. \"I know\ntailored clothes when I see 'em. You just stopped for a moment on\nyour way through the park. Don't mind my talking to you for a while?\nI've got to be with somebody. I'm afraid--I'm afraid. I've told\ntwo or three of those bummers over about it. They think I'm crazy.\nSay--let me tell you--all I've had to eat to-day was a couple\npretzels and an apple. To-morrow I'll stand in line to inherit three\nmillions; and that restaurant you see over there with the autos\naround it will be too cheap for me to eat in. Don't believe it, do\nyou? \"Without the slightest trouble,\" said Vallance, with a laugh. \"I\nlunched there yesterday. To-night I couldn't buy a five-cent cup of\ncoffee.\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"You don't look like one of us. Well, I guess those things happen. I\nused to be a high-flyer myself--some years ago. What knocked you out\nof the game?\" \"I--oh, I lost my job,\" said Vallance. \"It's undiluted Hades, this city,\" went on the other. \"One day you're\neating from china; the next you are eating in China--a chop-suey\njoint. I've had more than my share of hard luck. For five years\nI've been little better than a panhandler. I was raised up to live\nexpensively and do nothing. Say--I don't mind telling you--I've\ngot to talk to somebody, you see, because I'm afraid--I'm afraid.\nMy name's Ide. You wouldn't think that old Paulding, one of the\nmillionaires on Riverside Drive, was my uncle, would you? Well, he\nis. I lived in his house once, and had all the money I wanted. Say,\nhaven't you got the price of a couple of drinks about you--er--what's\nyour name--\" \"Dawson,\" said Vallance. \"No; I'm sorry to say that I'm all in,\nfinancially.\" \"I've been living for a week in a coal cellar on Division Street,\"\nwent on Ide, \"with a crook they called 'Blinky' Morris. I didn't have\nanywhere else to go. While I was out to-day a chap with some papers\nin his pocket was there, asking for me. I didn't know but what he was\na fly cop, so I didn't go around again till after dark. There was\na letter there he had left for me. Say--Dawson, it was from a big\ndowntown lawyer, Mead. I've seen his sign on Ann Street. Paulding\nwants me to play the prodigal nephew--wants me to come back and be\nhis heir again and blow in his money. I'm to call at the lawyer's\noffice at ten to-morrow and step into my old shoes again--heir to\nthree million, Dawson, and $10,000 a year pocket money. And--I'm\nafraid--I'm afraid.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The vagrant leaped to his feet and raised both trembling arms above\nhis head. He caught his breath and moaned hysterically. Vallance seized his arm and forced him back to the bench. \"Be quiet!\" he commanded, with something like disgust in his tones.\n\"One would think you had lost a fortune, instead of being about to\nacquire one. Of what are you afraid?\" Ide cowered and shivered on the bench. He clung to Vallance's\nsleeve, and even in the dim glow of the Broadway lights the latest\ndisinherited one could see drops on the other's brow wrung out by\nsome strange terror. \"Why, I'm afraid something will happen to me before morning. I don't\nknow what--something to keep me from coming into that money. I'm\nafraid a tree will fall on me--I'm afraid a cab will run over me, or\na stone drop on me from a housetop, or something. I never was afraid\nbefore. I've sat in this park a hundred nights as calm as a graven\nimage without knowing where my breakfast was to come from. But now\nit's different. I love money, Dawson--I'm happy as a god when it's\ntrickling through my fingers, and people are bowing to me, with the\nmusic and the flowers and fine clothes all around. As long as I knew\nI was out of the game I didn't mind. I was even happy sitting here\nragged and hungry, listening to the fountain jump and watching the\ncarriages go up the avenue. But it's in reach of my hand again\nnow--almost--and I can't stand it to wait twelve hours, Dawson--I\ncan't stand it. There are fifty things that could happen to me--I\ncould go blind--I might be attacked with heart disease--the world\nmight come to an end before I could--\" Ide sprang to his feet again, with a shriek. People stirred on the\nbenches and began to look. Vallance took his arm.", "words": 319}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Come and walk,\" he said, soothingly. \"And try to calm yourself.\nThere is no need to become excited or alarmed. Nothing is going to\nhappen to you. One night is like another.\" \"That's right,\" said Ide. \"Stay with me, Dawson--that's a good\nfellow. Walk around with me awhile. I never went to pieces like this\nbefore, and I've had a good many hard knocks. Do you think you could\nhustle something in the way of a little lunch, old man? I'm afraid my\nnerve's too far gone to try any panhandling.\" Vallance led his companion up almost deserted Fifth Avenue, and\nthen westward along the Thirties toward Broadway. \"Wait here a few\nminutes,\" he said, leaving Ide in a quiet and shadowed spot. He\nentered a familiar hotel, and strolled toward the bar quite in his\nold assured way. \"There's a poor devil outside, Jimmy,\" he said to the bartender, \"who\nsays he's hungry and looks it. You know what they do when you give\nthem money. Fix up a sandwich or two for him; and I'll see that he\ndoesn't throw it away.\" \"Certainly, Mr. Vallance,\" said the bartender. \"They ain't all fakes.\nDon't like to see anybody go hungry.\" He folded a liberal supply of the free lunch into a napkin. Vallance\nwent with it and joined his companion. Ide pounced upon the food\nravenously. \"I haven't had any free lunch as good as this in a year,\"\nhe said. \"Aren't you going to eat any, Dawson? \"I'm not hungry--thanks,\" said Vallance.", "words": 254}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"We'll go back to the Square,\" said Ide. \"The cops won't bother us\nthere. I'll roll up the rest of this ham and stuff for our breakfast.\nI won't eat any more; I'm afraid I'll get sick. Suppose I'd die of\ncramps or something to-night, and never get to touch that money\nagain! It's eleven hours yet till time to see that lawyer. You won't\nleave me, will you, Dawson? I'm afraid something might happen. You\nhaven't any place to go, have you?\" \"No,\" said Vallance, \"nowhere to-night. I'll have a bench with you.\" \"You take it cool,\" said Ide, \"if you've told it to me straight. I\nshould think a man put on the bum from a good job just in one day\nwould be tearing his hair.\" \"I believe I've already remarked,\" said Vallance, laughing, \"that\nI would have thought that a man who was expecting to come into a\nfortune on the next day would be feeling pretty easy and quiet.\" \"It's funny business,\" philosophized Ide, \"about the way people take\nthings, anyhow. Here's your bench, Dawson, right next to mine. The\nlight don't shine in your eyes here. Say, Dawson, I'll get the old\nman to give you a letter to somebody about a job when I get back\nhome. You've helped me a lot to-night. I don't believe I could have\ngone through the night if I hadn't struck you.\" \"Thank you,\" said Vallance. \"Do you lie down or sit up on these when\nyou sleep?\"", "words": 251}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "For hours Vallance gazed almost without winking at the stars through\nthe branches of the trees and listened to the sharp slapping of\nhorses' hoofs on the sea of asphalt to the south. His mind was\nactive, but his feelings were dormant. Every emotion seemed to\nhave been eradicated. He felt no regrets, no fears, no pain or\ndiscomfort. Even when he thought of the girl, it was as of an\ninhabitant of one of those remote stars at which he gazed. He\nremembered the absurd antics of his companion and laughed softly, yet\nwithout a feeling of mirth. Soon the daily army of milk wagons made\nof the city a roaring drum to which they marched. Vallance fell\nasleep on his comfortless bench. At ten o'clock on the next day the two stood at the door of Lawyer\nMead's office in Ann Street. Ide's nerves fluttered worse than ever when the hour approached; and\nVallance could not decide to leave him a possible prey to the dangers\nhe dreaded. When they entered the office, Lawyer Mead looked at them wonderingly.\nHe and Vallance were old friends. After his greeting, he turned\nto Ide, who stood with white face and trembling limbs before the\nexpected crisis. \"I sent a second letter to your address last night, Mr. Ide,\" he\nsaid. \"I learned this morning that you were not there to receive it.\nIt will inform you that Mr. Paulding has reconsidered his offer to\ntake you back into favor. He has decided not to do so, and desires\nyou to understand that no change will be made in the relations\nexisting between you and him.\"", "words": 275}, {"story": 9, "title": "THE SHOCKS OF DOOM", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Ide's trembling suddenly ceased. The color came back to his face,\nand he straightened his back. His jaw went forward half an inch,\nand a gleam came into his eye. He pushed back his battered hat with\none hand, and extended the other, with levelled fingers, toward the\nlawyer. He took a long breath and then laughed sardonically. \"Tell old Paulding he may go to the devil,\" he said, loudly and\nclearly, and turned and walked out of the office with a firm and\nlively step. Lawyer Mead turned on his heel to Vallance and smiled. \"I am glad you came in,\" he said, genially. \"Your uncle wants you to\nreturn home at once. He is reconciled to the situation that led to\nhis hasty action, and desires to say that all will be as--\" \"Hey, Adams!\" cried Lawyer Mead, breaking his sentence, and calling\nto his clerk. \"Bring a glass of water--Mr. Vallance has fainted.\" XII", "words": 157}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There are a few editor men with whom I am privileged to come in\ncontact. It has not been long since it was their habit to come in\ncontact with me. There is a difference. They tell me that with a large number of the manuscripts that are\nsubmitted to them come advices (in the way of a boost) from the\nauthor asseverating that the incidents in the story are true. The\ndestination of such contributions depends wholly upon the question of\nthe enclosure of stamps. Some are returned, the rest are thrown on\nthe floor in a corner on top of a pair of gum shoes, an overturned\nstatuette of the Winged Victory, and a pile of old magazines\ncontaining a picture of the editor in the act of reading the latest\ncopy of _Le Petit Journal_, right side up--you can tell by the\nillustrations. It is only a legend that there are waste baskets in\neditors' offices. Thus is truth held in disrepute. But in time truth and science and\nnature will adapt themselves to art. Things will happen logically,\nand the villain be discomfited instead of being elected to the board\nof directors. But in the meantime fiction must not only be divorced\nfrom fact, but must pay alimony and be awarded custody of the press\ndespatches.", "words": 220}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "This preamble is to warn you off the grade crossing of a true story.\nBeing that, it shall be told simply, with conjunctions substituted\nfor adjectives wherever possible, and whatever evidences of style may\nappear in it shall be due to the linotype man. It is a story of the\nliterary life in a great city, and it should be of interest to every\nauthor within a 20-mile radius of Gosport, Ind., whose desk holds a\nMS. story beginning thus: \"While the cheers following his nomination\nwere still ringing through the old court-house, Harwood broke away\nfrom the congratulating handclasps of his henchmen and hurried to\nJudge Creswell's house to find Ida.\" Pettit came up out of Alabama to write fiction. The Southern\npapers had printed eight of his stories under an editorial caption\nidentifying the author as the son of \"the gallant Major Pettingill\nPettit, our former County Attorney and hero of the battle of Lookout\nMountain.\" Pettit was a rugged fellow, with a kind of shame-faced culture,\nand my good friend. His father kept a general store in a little\ntown called Hosea. Pettit had been raised in the pine-woods and\nbroom-sedge fields adjacent thereto. He had in his gripsack two\nmanuscript novels of the adventures in Picardy of one Gaston\nLaboulaye, Vicompte de Montrepos, in the year 1329. That's nothing.\nWe all do that. And some day when we make a hit with the little\nsketch about a newsy and his lame dog, the editor prints the other\none for us--or \"on us,\" as the saying is--and then--and then we have\nto get a big valise and peddle those patent air-draft gas burners.\nAt $1.25 everybody should have 'em.", "words": 282}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I took Pettit to the red-brick house which was to appear in an\narticle entitled \"Literary Landmarks of Old New York,\" some day when\nwe got through with it. He engaged a room there, drawing on the\ngeneral store for his expenses. I showed New York to him, and he did\nnot mention how much narrower Broadway is than Lee Avenue in Hosea.\nThis seemed a good sign, so I put the final test. \"Suppose you try your hand at a descriptive article,\" I suggested,\n\"giving your impressions of New York as seen from the Brooklyn\nBridge. The fresh point of view, the--\" \"Don't be a fool,\" said Pettit. \"Let's go have some beer. On the\nwhole I rather like the city.\" We discovered and enjoyed the only true Bohemia. Every day and night\nwe repaired to one of those palaces of marble and glass and tilework,\nwhere goes on a tremendous and sounding epic of life. Valhalla itself\ncould not be more glorious and sonorous. The classic marble on which\nwe ate, the great, light-flooded, vitreous front, adorned with\nsnow-white scrolls; the grand Wagnerian din of clanking cups and\nbowls, the flashing staccato of brandishing cutlery, the piercing\nrecitative of the white-aproned grub-maidens at the morgue-like\nbanquet tables; the recurrent lied-motif of the cash-register--it\nwas a gigantic, triumphant welding of art and sound, a deafening,\nsoul-uplifting pageant of heroic and emblematic life. And the beans\nwere only ten cents. We wondered why our fellow-artists cared to dine\nat sad little tables in their so-called Bohemian restaurants; and\nwe shuddered lest they should seek out our resorts and make them\nconspicuous with their presence.", "words": 274}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Pettit wrote many stories, which the editors returned to him. He\nwrote love stories, a thing I have always kept free from, holding the\nbelief that the well-known and popular sentiment is not properly a\nmatter for publication, but something to be privately handled by the\nalienists and florists. But the editors had told him that they wanted\nlove stories, because they said the women read them. Now, the editors are wrong about that, of course. Women do not read\nthe love stories in the magazines. They read the poker-game stories\nand the recipes for cucumber lotion. The love stories are read by fat\ncigar drummers and little ten-year-old girls. I am not criticising\nthe judgment of editors. They are mostly very fine men, but a man\ncan be but one man, with individual opinions and tastes. I knew two\nassociate editors of a magazine who were wonderfully alike in almost\neverything. And yet one of them was very fond of Flaubert, while the\nother preferred gin. Pettit brought me his returned manuscripts, and we looked them over\ntogether to find out why they were not accepted. They seemed to me\npretty fair stories, written in a good style, and ended, as they\nshould, at the bottom of the last page. They were well constructed and the events were marshalled in orderly\nand logical sequence. But I thought I detected a lack of living\nsubstance--it was much as if I gazed at a symmetrical array of\npresentable clamshells from which the succulent and vital inhabitants\nhad been removed. I intimated that the author might do well to get\nbetter acquainted with his theme. \"You sold a story last week,\" said Pettit, \"about a gun fight in an\nArizona mining town in which the hero drew his Colt's .45 and shot\nseven bandits as fast as they came in the door. Now, if a six-shooter\ncould--\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Oh, well,\" said I, \"that's different. Arizona is a long way from New\nYork. I could have a man stabbed with a lariat or chased by a pair\nof chaparreras if I wanted to, and it wouldn't be noticed until the\nusual error-sharp from around McAdams Junction isolates the erratum\nand writes in to the papers about it. But you are up against another\nproposition. This thing they call love is as common around New York\nas it is in Sheboygan during the young onion season. It may be mixed\nhere with a little commercialism--they read Byron, but they look\nup Bradstreet's, too, while they're among the B's, and Brigham\nalso if they have time--but it's pretty much the same old internal\ndisturbance everywhere. You can fool an editor with a fake picture of\na cowboy mounting a pony with his left hand on the saddle horn, but\nyou can't put him up a tree with a love story. So, you've got to fall\nin love and then write the real thing.\" Pettit did. I never knew whether he was taking my advice or whether\nhe fell an accidental victim. There was a girl he had met at one of these studio contrivances--a\nglorious, impudent, lucid, open-minded girl with hair the color of\nCulmbacher, and a good-natured way of despising you. She was a New\nYork girl. Well (as the narrative style permits us to say infrequently),\nPettit went to pieces. All those pains, those lover's doubts, those\nheart-burnings and tremors of which he had written so unconvincingly\nwere his. Talk about Shylock's pound of flesh! Twenty-five pounds\nCupid got from Pettit. Which is the usurer? One night Pettit came to my room exalted. Pale and haggard but\nexalted. She had given him a jonquil.", "words": 295}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Old Hoss,\" said he, with a new smile flickering around his mouth, \"I\nbelieve I could write that story to-night--the one, you know, that is\nto win out. I can feel it. I don't know whether it will come out or\nnot, but I can feel it.\" I pushed him out of my door. \"Go to your room and write it,\" I\nordered. \"Else I can see your finish. I told you this must come\nfirst. Write it to-night and put it under my door when it is done.\nPut it under my door to-night when it is finished--don't keep it\nuntil to-morrow.\" I was reading my bully old pal Montaigne at two o'clock when I heard\nthe sheets rustle under my door. I gathered them up and read the\nstory. The hissing of geese, the languishing cooing of doves, the braying\nof donkeys, the chatter of irresponsible sparrows--these were in my\nmind's ear as I read. \"Suffering Sappho!\" I exclaimed to myself. \"Is\nthis the divine fire that is supposed to ignite genius and make it\npractical and wage-earning?\" The story was sentimental drivel, full of whimpering soft-heartedness\nand gushing egoism. All the art that Pettit had acquired was gone. A\nperusal of its buttery phrases would have made a cynic of a sighing\nchambermaid. In the morning Pettit came to my room. I read him his doom\nmercilessly. He laughed idiotically. \"All right, Old Hoss,\" he said, cheerily, \"make cigar-lighters of it.\nWhat's the difference? I'm going to take her to lunch at Claremont\nto-day.\"", "words": 257}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There was about a month of it. And then Pettit came to me bearing an\ninvisible mitten, with the fortitude of a dish-rag. He talked of the\ngrave and South America and prussic acid; and I lost an afternoon\ngetting him straight. I took him out and saw that large and curative\ndoses of whiskey were administered to him. I warned you this was a\ntrue story--'ware your white ribbons if only follow this tale. For\ntwo weeks I fed him whiskey and Omar, and read to him regularly every\nevening the column in the evening paper that reveals the secrets of\nfemale beauty. I recommend the treatment. After Pettit was cured he wrote more stories. He recovered his\nold-time facility and did work just short of good enough. Then the\ncurtain rose on the third act. A little, dark-eyed, silent girl from New Hampshire, who was studying\napplied design, fell deeply in love with him. She was the intense\nsort, but externally _glac\u00e9_, such as New England sometimes fools us\nwith. Pettit liked her mildly, and took her about a good deal. She\nworshipped him, and now and then bored him. There came a climax when she tried to jump out of a window, and he\nhad to save her by some perfunctary, unmeant wooing. Even I was\nshaken by the depths of the absorbing affection she showed. Home,\nfriends, traditions, creeds went up like thistle-down in the scale\nagainst her love. It was really discomposing. One night again Pettit sauntered in, yawning. As he had told me\nbefore, he said he felt that he could do a great story, and as before\nI hunted him to his room and saw him open his inkstand. At one\no'clock the sheets of paper slid under my door.", "words": 297}, {"story": 10, "title": "THE PLUTONIAN FIRE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I read that story, and I jumped up, late as it was, with a whoop of\njoy. Old Pettit had done it. Just as though it lay there, red and\nbleeding, a woman's heart was written into the lines. You couldn't\nsee the joining, but art, exquisite art, and pulsing nature had been\ncombined into a love story that took you by the throat like the\nquinsy. I broke into Pettit's room and beat him on the back and\ncalled him names--names high up in the galaxy of the immortals that\nwe admired. And Pettit yawned and begged to be allowed to sleep. On the morrow, I dragged him to an editor. The great man read, and,\nrising, gave Pettit his hand. That was a decoration, a wreath of bay,\nand a guarantee of rent. And then old Pettit smiled slowly. I call him Gentleman Pettit now\nto myself. It's a miserable name to give a man, but it sounds better\nthan it looks in print. \"I see,\" said old Pettit, as he took up his story and began tearing\nit into small strips. \"I see the game now. You can't write with ink,\nand you can't write with your own heart's blood, but you can write\nwith the heart's blood of some one else. You have to be a cad before\nyou can be an artist. Well, I am for old Alabam and the Major's\nstore. Have you got a light, Old Hoss?\" I went with Pettit to the depot and died hard. \"Shakespeare's sonnets?\" I blurted, making a last stand. \"How about\nhim?\" \"A cad,\" said Pettit. \"They give it to you, and you sell it--love,\nyou know. I'd rather sell ploughs for father.\" \"But,\" I protested, \"you are reversing the decision of the world's\ngreatest--\" \"Good-by, Old Hoss,\" said Pettit.", "words": 303}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"We sail at eight in the morning on the _Celtic_,\" said Honoria,\nplucking a loose thread from her lace sleeve. \"I heard so,\" said young Ives, dropping his hat, and muffing it as he\ntried to catch it, \"and I came around to wish you a pleasant voyage.\" \"Of course you heard it,\" said Honoria, coldly sweet, \"since we have\nhad no opportunity of informing you ourselves.\" Ives looked at her pleadingly, but with little hope. Outside in the street a high-pitched voice chanted, not\nunmusically, a commercial gamut of \"Cand-ee-ee-ee-s! Nice, fresh\ncand-ee-ee-ee-ees!\" \"It's our old candy man,\" said Honoria, leaning out the window and\nbeckoning. \"I want some of his motto kisses. There's nothing in the\nBroadway shops half so good.\" The candy man stopped his pushcart in front of the old Madison Avenue\nhome. He had a holiday and festival air unusual to street peddlers.\nHis tie was new and bright red, and a horseshoe pin, almost\nlife-size, glittered speciously from its folds. His brown, thin face\nwas crinkled into a semi-foolish smile. Striped cuffs with dog-head\nbuttons covered the tan on his wrists. \"I do believe he's going to get married,\" said Honoria, pityingly. \"I\nnever saw him taken that way before. And to-day is the first time in\nmonths that he has cried his wares, I am sure.\" Ives threw a coin to the sidewalk. The candy man knows his customers.\nHe filled a paper bag, climbed the old-fashioned stoop and handed it\nin. \"I remember--\" said Ives. \"Wait,\" said Honoria. She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from\nthe portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two\ninches in size. \"This,\" said Honoria, inflexibly, \"was wrapped about the first one we\nopened.\" \"It was a year ago,\" apologized Ives, as he held out his hand for\nit,", "words": 313}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"As long as skies above are blue\n To you, my love, I will be true.\" This he read from the slip of flimsy paper. \"We were to have sailed a fortnight ago,\" said Honoria, gossipingly.\n\"It has been such a warm summer. The town is quite deserted. There is\nnowhere to go. Yet I am told that one or two of the roof gardens are\namusing. The singing--and the dancing--on one or two seem to have met\nwith approval.\" Ives did not wince. When you are in the ring you are not surprised\nwhen your adversary taps you on the ribs. \"I followed the candy man that time,\" said Ives, irrelevantly, \"and\ngave him five dollars at the corner of Broadway.\" He reached for the paper bag in Honoria's lap, took out one of the\nsquare, wrapped confections and slowly unrolled it. \"Sara Chillingworth's father,\" said Honoria, \"has given her an\nautomobile.\" \"Read that,\" said Ives, handing over the slip that had been wrapped\naround the square of candy. \"Life teaches us--how to live,\n Love teaches us--to forgive.\" Honoria's checks turned pink. \"Honoria!\" cried Ives, starting up from his chair. \"Miss Clinton,\" corrected Honoria, rising like Venus from the bead\non the surf. \"I warned you not to speak that name again.\"' \"Honoria,\" repeated Ives, \"you must hear me. I know I do not\ndeserve your forgiveness, but I must have it. There is a madness\nthat possesses one sometimes for which his better nature is not\nresponsible. I throw everything else but you to the winds. I strike\noff the chains that have bound me. I renounce the siren that lured me\nfrom you. Let the bought verse of that street peddler plead for me.\nIt is you only whom I can love. Let your love forgive, and I swear to\nyou that mine will be true 'as long as skies above are blue.'\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "On the west side, between Sixth and Seventh Avenues, an alley cuts\nthe block in the middle. It perishes in a little court in the centre\nof the block. The district is theatrical; the inhabitants, the\nbubbling froth of half a dozen nations. The atmosphere is Bohemian,\nthe language polyglot, the locality precarious. In the court at the rear of the alley lived the candy man. At seven\no'clock he pushed his cart into the narrow entrance, rested it upon\nthe irregular stone slats and sat upon one of the handles to cool\nhimself. There was a great draught of cool wind through the alley. There was a window above the spot where he always stopped his\npushcart. In the cool of the afternoon, Mlle. Ad\u00e8le, drawing card of\nthe A\u00ebrial Roof Garden, sat at the window and took the air. Generally\nher ponderous mass of dark auburn hair was down, that the breeze\nmight have the felicity of aiding Sidonie, the maid, in drying\nand airing it. About her shoulders--the point of her that the\nphotographers always made the most of--was loosely draped a\nheliotrope scarf. Her arms to the elbow were bare--there were no\nsculptors there to rave over them--but even the stolid bricks in\nthe walls of the alley should not have been so insensate as to\ndisapprove. While she sat thus F\u00e9lice, another maid, anointed and\nbathed the small feet that twinkled and so charmed the nightly A\u00ebrial\naudiences. Gradually Mademoiselle began to notice the candy man stopping to mop\nhis brow and cool himself beneath her window. In the hands of her\nmaids she was deprived for the time of her vocation--the charming\nand binding to her chariot of man. To lose time was displeasing to\nMademoiselle. Here was the candy man--no fit game for her darts,\ntruly--but of the sex upon which she had been born to make war.", "words": 315}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "After casting upon him looks of unseeing coldness for a dozen times,\none afternoon she suddenly thawed and poured down upon him a smile\nthat put to shame the sweets upon his cart. \"Candy man,\" she said, cooingly, while Sidonie followed her impulsive\ndive, brushing the heavy auburn hair, \"don't you think I am\nbeautiful?\" The candy man laughed harshly, and looked up, with his thin jaw set,\nwhile he wiped his forehead with a red-and-blue handkerchief. \"Yer'd make a dandy magazine cover,\" he said, grudgingly. \"Beautiful\nor not is for them that cares. It's not my line. If yer lookin' for\nbouquets apply elsewhere between nine and twelve. I think we'll have\nrain.\" Truly, fascinating a candy man is like killing rabbits in a deep\nsnow; but the hunter's blood is widely diffused. Mademoiselle tugged\na great coil of hair from Sidonie's hands and let it fall out the\nwindow. \"Candy man, have you a sweetheart anywhere with hair as long and soft\nas that? And with an arm so round?\" She flexed an arm like Galatea's\nafter the miracle across the window-sill. The candy man cackled shrilly as he arranged a stock of butter-scotch\nthat had tumbled down. \"Smoke up!\" said he, vulgarly. \"Nothin' doin' in the complimentary\nline. I'm too wise to be bamboozled by a switch of hair and a newly\nmassaged arm. Oh, I guess you'll make good in the calcium, all right,\nwith plenty of powder and paint on and the orchestra playing 'Under\nthe Old Apple Tree.' But don't put on your hat and chase downstairs\nto fly to the Little Church Around the Corner with me. I've been\nup against peroxide and make-up boxes before. Say, all joking\naside--don't you think we'll have rain?\" \"Candy man,\" said Mademoiselle softly, with her lips curving and her\nchin dimpling, \"don't you think I'm pretty?\" The candy man grinned.", "words": 314}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Savin' money, ain't yer?\" said he, \"by bein' yer own press agent.\nI smoke, but I haven't seen yer mug on any of the five-cent cigar\nboxes. It'd take a new brand of woman to get me goin', anyway. I\nknow 'em from sidecombs to shoelaces. Gimme a good day's sales and\nsteak-and-onions at seven and a pipe and an evenin' paper back there\nin the court, and I'll not trouble Lillian Russell herself to wink\nat me, if you please.\" Mademoiselle pouted. \"Candy man,\" she said, softly and deeply, \"yet you shall say that I\nam beautiful. All men say so and so shall you.\" The candy man laughed and pulled out his pipe. \"Well,\" said he, \"I must be goin' in. There is a story in the evenin'\npaper that I am readin'. Men are divin' in the seas for a treasure,\nand pirates are watchin' them from behind a reef. And there ain't a\nwoman on land or water or in the air. Good-evenin'.\" And he trundled\nhis pushcart down the alley and back to the musty court where he\nlived.", "words": 184}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Incredibly to him who has not learned woman, Mademoiselle sat at the\nwindow each day and spread her nets for the ignominious game. Once\nshe kept a grand cavalier waiting in her reception chamber for half\nan hour while she battered in vain the candy man's tough philosophy.\nHis rough laugh chafed her vanity to its core. Daily he sat on his\ncart in the breeze of the alley while her hair was being ministered\nto, and daily the shafts of her beauty rebounded from his dull bosom\npointless and ineffectual. Unworthy pique brightened her eyes.\nPride-hurt she glowed upon him in a way that would have sent her\nhigher adorers into an egoistic paradise. The candy man's hard eyes\nlooked upon her with a half-concealed derision that urged her to the\nuse of the sharpest arrow in her beauty's quiver. One afternoon she leaned far over the sill, and she did not challenge\nand torment him as usual. \"Candy man,\" said she, \"stand up and look into my eyes.\" He stood up and looked into her eyes, with his harsh laugh like the\nsawing of wood. He took out his pipe, fumbled with it, and put it\nback into big pocket with a trembling hand. \"That will do,\" said Mademoiselle, with a slow smile. \"I must go now\nto my masseuse. Good-evening.\" The next evening at seven the candy man came and rested his cart\nunder the window. But was it the candy man? His clothes were a bright\nnew check. His necktie was a flaming red, adorned by a glittering\nhorseshoe pin, almost life-size. His shoes were polished; the tan\nof his cheeks had paled--his hands had been washed. The window was\nempty, and he waited under it with his nose upward, like a hound\nhoping for a bone.", "words": 301}, {"story": 11, "title": "NEMESIS AND THE CANDY MAN", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mademoiselle came, with Sidonie carrying her load of hair. She looked\nat the candy man and smiled a slow smile that faded away into ennui.\nInstantly she knew that the game was bagged; and so quickly she\nwearied of the chase. She began to talk to Sidonie. \"Been a fine day,\" said the candy man, hollowly. \"First time in a\nmonth I've felt first-class. Hit it up down old Madison, hollering\nout like I useter. Think it'll rain to-morrow?\" Mademoiselle laid two round arms on the cushion on the window-sill,\nand a dimpled chin upon them. \"Candy man,\" said she, softly, \"do you not love me?\" The candy man stood up and leaned against the brick wall. \"Lady,\" said he, chokingly, \"I've got $800 saved up. Did I say you\nwasn't beautiful? Take it every bit of it and buy a collar for your\ndog with it.\" A sound as of a hundred silvery bells tinkled in the room of\nMademoiselle. The laughter filled the alley and trickled back into\nthe court, as strange a thing to enter there as sunlight itself.\nMademoiselle was amused. Sidonie, a wise echo, added a sepulchral\nbut faithful contralto. The laughter of the two seemed at last to\npenetrate the candy man. He fumbled with his horseshoe pin. At length\nMademoiselle, exhausted, turned her flushed, beautiful face to the\nwindow. \"Candy man,\" said she, \"go away. When I laugh Sidonie pulls my hair.\nI can but laugh while you remain there.\" \"Here is a note for Mademoiselle,\" said F\u00e9lice, coming to the window\nin the room. \"There is no justice,\" said the candy man, lifting the handle of his\ncart and moving away. Three yards he moved, and stopped. Loud shriek after shriek came from\nthe window of Mademoiselle. Quickly he ran back. He heard a body\nthumping upon the floor and a sound as though heels beat alternately\nupon it.", "words": 317}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the hazard of wearying you this tale of vehement emotions must be\nprefaced by a discourse on geometry. Nature moves in circles; Art in straight lines. The natural is\nrounded; the artificial is made up of angles. A man lost in the snow\nwanders, in spite of himself, in perfect circles; the city man's\nfeet, denaturalized by rectangular streets and floors, carry him ever\naway from himself. The round eyes of childhood typify innocence; the narrowed line of\nthe flirt's optic proves the invasion of art. The horizontal mouth\nis the mark of determined cunning; who has not read Nature's most\nspontaneous lyric in lips rounded for the candid kiss? Beauty is Nature in perfection; circularity is its chief attribute.\nBehold the full moon, the enchanting golf ball, the domes of splendid\ntemples, the huckleberry pie, the wedding ring, the circus ring, the\nring for the waiter, and the \"round\" of drinks. On the other hand, straight lines show that Nature has been\ndeflected. Imagine Venus's girdle transformed into a \"straight\nfront\"! When we begin to move in straight lines and turn sharp corners our\nnatures begin to change. The consequence is that Nature, being more\nadaptive than Art, tries to conform to its sterner regulations. The\nresult is often a rather curious product--for instance: A prize\nchrysanthemum, wood alcohol whiskey, a Republican Missouri,\ncauliflower _au gratin_, and a New Yorker. Nature is lost quickest in a big city. The cause is geometrical,\nnot moral. The straight lines of its streets and architecture, the\nrectangularity of its laws and social customs, the undeviating\npavements, the hard, severe, depressing, uncompromising rules of\nall its ways--even of its recreation and sports--coldly exhibit a\nsneering defiance of the curved line of Nature.", "words": 290}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Wherefore, it may be said that the big city has demonstrated the\nproblem of squaring the circle. And it may be added that this\nmathematical introduction precedes an account of the fate of a\nKentucky feud that was imported to the city that has a habit of\nmaking its importations conform to its angles. The feud began in the Cumberland Mountains between the Folwell and\nthe Harkness families. The first victim of the homespun vendetta was\na 'possum dog belonging to Bill Harkness. The Harkness family evened\nup this dire loss by laying out the chief of the Folwell clan. The\nFolwells were prompt at repartee. They oiled up their squirrel rifles\nand made it feasible for Bill Harkness to follow his dog to a land\nwhere the 'possums come down when treed without the stroke of an ax. The feud flourished for forty years. Harknesses were shot at\nthe plough, through their lamp-lit cabin windows, coming from\ncamp-meeting, asleep, in duello, sober and otherwise, singly and in\nfamily groups, prepared and unprepared. Folwells had the branches of\ntheir family tree lopped off in similar ways, as the traditions of\ntheir country prescribed and authorized. By and by the pruning left but a single member of each family. And\nthen Cal Harkness, probably reasoning that further pursuance of the\ncontroversy would give a too decided personal flavour to the feud,\nsuddenly disappeared from the relieved Cumberlands, baulking the\navenging hand of Sam, the ultimate opposing Folwell.", "words": 246}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A year afterward Sam Folwell learned that his hereditary,\nunsuppressed enemy was living in New York City. Sam turned over the\nbig iron wash-pot in the yard, scraped off some of the soot, which he\nmixed with lard and shined his boots with the compound. He put on his\nstore clothes of butternut dyed black, a white shirt and collar, and\npacked a carpet-sack with Spartan _lingerie_. He took his squirrel\nrifle from its hooks, but put it back again with a sigh. However\nethical and plausible the habit might be in the Cumberlands, perhaps\nNew York would not swallow his pose of hunting squirrels among the\nskyscrapers along Broadway. An ancient but reliable Colt's revolver\nthat he resurrected from a bureau drawer seemed to proclaim itself\nthe pink of weapons for metropolitan adventure and vengeance.\nThis and a hunting-knife in a leather sheath, Sam packed in the\ncarpet-sack. As he started, muleback, for the lowland railroad\nstation the last Folwell turned in his saddle and looked grimly at\nthe little cluster of white-pine slabs in the clump of cedars that\nmarked the Folwell burying-ground. Sam Folwell arrived in New York in the night. Still moving and living\nin the free circles of nature, he did not perceive the formidable,\npitiless, restless, fierce angles of the great city waiting in the\ndark to close about the rotundity of his heart and brain and mould\nhim to the form of its millions of re-shaped victims. A cabby picked\nhim out of the whirl, as Sam himself had often picked a nut from a\nbed of wind-tossed autumn leaves, and whisked him away to a hotel\ncommensurate to his boots and carpet-sack.", "words": 280}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "On the next morning the last of the Folwells made his sortie into the\ncity that sheltered the last Harkness. The Colt was thrust beneath\nhis coat and secured by a narrow leather belt; the hunting-knife hung\nbetween his shoulder-blades, with the haft an inch below his coat\ncollar. He knew this much--that Cal Harkness drove an express wagon\nsomewhere in that town, and that he, Sam Folwell, had come to kill\nhim. And as he stepped upon the sidewalk the red came into his eye\nand the feud-hate into his heart. The clamor of the central avenues drew him thitherward. He had half\nexpected to see Cal coming down the street in his shirt-sleeves,\nwith a jug and a whip in his hand, just as he would have seen him in\nFrankfort or Laurel City. But an hour went by and Cal did not appear.\nPerhaps he was waiting in ambush, to shoot him from a door or a\nwindow. Sam kept a sharp eye on doors and windows for a while. About noon the city tired of playing with its mouse and suddenly\nsqueezed him with its straight lines. Sam Folwell stood where two great, rectangular arteries of the city\ncross. He looked four ways, and saw the world hurled from its orbit\nand reduced by spirit level and tape to an edged and cornered plane.\nAll life moved on tracks, in grooves, according to system, within\nboundaries, by rote. The root of life was the cube root; the measure\nof existence was square measure. People streamed by in straight rows;\nthe horrible din and crash stupefied him.", "words": 270}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Sam leaned against the sharp corner of a stone building. Those faces\npassed him by thousands, and none of them were turned toward him.\nA sudden foolish fear that he had died and was a spirit, and that\nthey could not see him, seized him. And then the city smote him with\nloneliness. A fat man dropped out of the stream and stood a few feet distant,\nwaiting for his car. Sam crept to his side and shouted above the\ntumult into his ear: \"The Rankinses' hogs weighed more'n ourn a whole passel, but the mast\nin thar neighborhood was a fine chance better than what it was\ndown--\" The fat man moved away unostentatiously, and bought roasted chestnuts\nto cover his alarm. Sam felt the need of a drop of mountain dew. Across the street men\npassed in and out through swinging doors. Brief glimpses could be\nhad of a glistening bar and its bedeckings. The feudist crossed and\nessayed to enter. Again had Art eliminated the familiar circle. Sam's\nhand found no door-knob--it slid, in vain, over a rectangular brass\nplate and polished oak with nothing even so large as a pin's head\nupon which his fingers might close. Abashed, reddened, heartbroken, he walked away from the bootless door\nand sat upon a step. A locust club tickled him in the ribs. \"Take a walk for yourself,\" said the policeman. \"You've been loafing\naround here long enough.\"", "words": 239}, {"story": 12, "title": "SQUARING THE CIRCLE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the next corner a shrill whistle sounded in Sam's ear. He wheeled\naround and saw a black-browed villain scowling at him over peanuts\nheaped on a steaming machine. He started across the street. An\nimmense engine, running without mules, with the voice of a bull\nand the smell of a smoky lamp, whizzed past, grazing his knee. A\ncab-driver bumped him with a hub and explained to him that kind words\nwere invented to be used on other occasions. A motorman clanged his\nbell wildly and, for once in his life, corroborated a cab-driver. A\nlarge lady in a changeable silk waist dug an elbow into his back, and\na newsy pensively pelted him with banana rinds, murmuring, \"I hates\nto do it--but if anybody seen me let it pass!\" Cal Harkness, his day's work over and his express wagon stabled,\nturned the sharp edge of the building that, by the cheek of\narchitects, is modelled upon a safety razor. Out of the mass of\nhurrying people his eye picked up, three yards away, the surviving\nbloody and implacable foe of his kith and kin. He stopped short and wavered for a moment, being unarmed and sharply\nsurprised. But the keen mountaineer's eye of Sam Folwell had picked\nhim out. There was a sudden spring, a ripple in the stream of passers-by and\nthe sound of Sam's voice crying: \"Howdy, Cal! I'm durned glad to see ye.\" And in the angles of Broadway, Fifth Avenue and Twenty-third Street\nthe Cumberland feudists shook hands. XV", "words": 255}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Ravenel--Ravenel, the traveller, artist and poet, threw his magazine\nto the floor. Sammy Brown, broker's clerk, who sat by the window,\njumped. \"What is it, Ravvy?\" he asked. \"The critics been hammering your stock\ndown?\" \"Romance is dead,\" said Ravenel, lightly. When Ravenel spoke lightly\nhe was generally serious. He picked up the magazine and fluttered its\nleaves. \"Even a Philistine, like you, Sammy,\" said Ravenel, seriously (a tone\nthat insured him to be speaking lightly), \"ought to understand. Now,\nhere is a magazine that once printed Poe and Lowell and Whitman and\nBret Harte and Du Maurier and Lanier and--well, that gives you the\nidea. The current number has this literary feast to set before you:\nan article on the stokers and coal bunkers of battleships, an expos\u00e9\nof the methods employed in making liverwurst, a continued story of a\nStandard Preferred International Baking Powder deal in Wall Street,\na 'poem' on the bear that the President missed, another 'story' by\na young woman who spent a week as a spy making overalls on the East\nSide, another 'fiction' story that reeks of the 'garage' and a\ncertain make of automobile. Of course, the title contains the words\n'Cupid' and 'Chauffeur'--an article on naval strategy, illustrated\nwith cuts of the Spanish Armada, and the new Staten Island\nferry-boats; another story of a political boss who won the love of\na Fifth Avenue belle by blackening her eye and refusing to vote\nfor an iniquitous ordinance (it doesn't say whether it was in the\nStreet-Cleaning Department or Congress), and nineteen pages by the\neditors bragging about the circulation. The whole thing, Sammy, is an\nobituary on Romance.\"", "words": 277}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Sammy Brown sat comfortably in the leather armchair by the open\nwindow. His suit was a vehement brown with visible checks,\nbeautifully matched in shade by the ends of four cigars that his vest\npocket poorly concealed. Light tan were his shoes, gray his socks,\nsky-blue his apparent linen, snowy and high and adamantine his\ncollar, against which a black butterfly had alighted and spread his\nwings. Sammy's face--least important--was round and pleasant and\npinkish, and in his eyes you saw no haven for fleeing Romance. That window of Ravenel's apartment opened upon an old garden full of\nancient trees and shrubbery. The apartment-house towered above one\nside of it; a high brick wall fended it from the street; opposite\nRavenel's window an old, old mansion stood, half-hidden in the shade\nof the summer foliage. The house was a castle besieged. The city\nhowled and roared and shrieked and beat upon its double doors, and\nshook white, fluttering checks above the wall, offering terms of\nsurrender. The gray dust settled upon the trees; the siege was\npressed hotter, but the drawbridge was not lowered. No further will\nthe language of chivalry serve. Inside lived an old gentleman who\nloved his home and did not wish to sell it. That is all the romance\nof the besieged castle.", "words": 217}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Three or four times every week came Sammy Brown to Ravenel's\napartment. He belonged to the poet's club, for the former Browns had\nbeen conspicuous, though Sammy had been vulgarized by Business. He\nhad no tears for departed Romance. The song of the ticker was the\none that reached his heart, and when it came to matters equine and\nbatting scores he was something of a pink edition. He loved to sit\nin the leather armchair by Ravenel's window. And Ravenel didn't mind\nparticularly. Sammy seemed to enjoy his talk; and then the broker's\nclerk was such a perfect embodiment of modernity and the day's sordid\npracticality that Ravenel rather liked to use him as a scapegoat. \"I'll tell you what's the matter with you,\" said Sammy, with the\nshrewdness that business had taught him. \"The magazine has turned\ndown some of your poetry stunts. That's why you are sore at it.\" \"That would be a good guess in Wall Street or in a campaign for the\npresidency of a woman's club,\" said Ravenel, quietly. \"Now, there\nis a poem--if you will allow me to call it that--of my own in this\nnumber of the magazine.\" \"Read it to me,\" said Sammy, watching a cloud of pipe-smoke he had\njust blown out the window. Ravenel was no greater than Achilles. No one is. There is bound to be\na spot. The Somebody-or-Other must take hold of us somewhere when she\ndips us in the Something-or-Other that makes us invulnerable. He read\naloud this verse in the magazine: THE FOUR ROSES \"One rose I twined within your hair--\n (White rose, that spake of worth);\n And one you placed upon your breast--\n (Red rose, love's seal of birth).\n You plucked another from its stem--\n (Tea rose, that means for aye);\n And one you gave--that bore for me\n The thorns of memory.\" \"That's a crackerjack,\" said Sammy, admiringly.", "words": 315}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"There are five more verses,\" said Ravenel, patiently sardonic. \"One\nnaturally pauses at the end of each. Of course--\" \"Oh, let's have the rest, old man,\" shouted Sammy, contritely, \"I\ndidn't mean to cut you off. I'm not much of a poetry expert, you\nknow. I never saw a poem that didn't look like it ought to have\nterminal facilities at the end of every verse. Reel off the rest of\nit.\" Ravenel sighed, and laid the magazine down. \"All right,\" said Sammy,\ncheerfully, \"we'll have it next time. I'll be off now. Got a date at\nfive o'clock.\" He took a last look at the shaded green garden and left, whistling in\nan off key an untuneful air from a roofless farce comedy. The next afternoon Ravenel, while polishing a ragged line of a new\nsonnet, reclined by the window overlooking the besieged garden of\nthe unmercenary baron. Suddenly he sat up, spilling two rhymes and a\nsyllable or two. Through the trees one window of the old mansion could be seen\nclearly. In its window, draped in flowing white, leaned the angel of\nall his dreams of romance and poesy. Young, fresh as a drop of dew,\ngraceful as a spray of clematis, conferring upon the garden hemmed\nin by the roaring traffic the air of a princess's bower, beautiful\nas any flower sung by poet--thus Ravenel saw her for the first time.\nShe lingered for a while, and then disappeared within, leaving a\nfew notes of a birdlike ripple of song to reach his entranced ears\nthrough the rattle of cabs and the snarling of the electric cars.", "words": 271}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Thus, as if to challenge the poet's flaunt at romance and to punish\nhim for his recreancy to the undying spirit of youth and beauty, this\nvision had dawned upon him with a thrilling and accusive power. And\nso metabolic was the power that in an instant the atoms of Ravenel's\nentire world were redistributed. The laden drays that passed the\nhouse in which she lived rumbled a deep double-bass to the tune of\nlove. The newsboys' shouts were the notes of singing birds; that\ngarden was the pleasance of the Capulets; the janitor was an ogre;\nhimself a knight, ready with sword, lance or lute. Thus does romance show herself amid forests of brick and stone when\nshe gets lost in the city, and there has to be sent out a general\nalarm to find her again. At four in the afternoon Ravenel looked out across the garden. In\nthe window of his hopes were set four small vases, each containing a\ngreat, full-blown rose--red and white. And, as he gazed, she leaned\nabove them, shaming them with her loveliness and seeming to direct\nher eyes pensively toward his own window. And then, as though she had\ncaught his respectful but ardent regard, she melted away, leaving the\nfragrant emblems on the window-sill. Yes, emblems!--he would be unworthy if he had not understood. She had\nread his poem, \"The Four Roses\"; it had reached her heart; and this\nwas its romantic answer. Of course she must know that Ravenel, the\npoet, lived there across her garden. His picture, too, she must have\nseen in the magazines. The delicate, tender, modest, flattering\nmessage could not be ignored. Ravenel noticed beside the roses a small flowering-pot containing a\nplant. Without shame he brought his opera-glasses and employed them\nfrom the cover of his window-curtain. A nutmeg geranium!", "words": 306}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "With the true poetic instinct he dragged a book of useless\ninformation from his shelves, and tore open the leaves at \"The\nLanguage of Flowers.\" \"Geranium, Nutmeg--I expect a meeting.\" So! Romance never does things by halves. If she comes back to you she\nbrings gifts and her knitting, and will sit in your chimney-corner if\nyou will let her. And now Ravenel smiled. The lover smiles when he thinks he has won.\nThe woman who loves ceases to smile with victory. He ends a battle;\nshe begins hers. What a pretty idea to set the four roses in her\nwindow for him to see! She must have a sweet, poetic soul. And now to\ncontrive the meeting. A whistling and slamming of doors preluded the coming of Sammy Brown. Ravenel smiled again. Even Sammy Brown was shone upon by the\nfar-flung rays of the renaissance. Sammy, with his ultra clothes, his\nhorseshoe pin, his plump face, his trite slang, his uncomprehending\nadmiration of Ravenel--the broker's clerk made an excellent foil to\nthe new, bright unseen visitor to the poet's sombre apartment. Sammy went to his old seat by the window, and looked out over the\ndusty green foliage in the garden. Then he looked at his watch, and\nrose hastily. \"By grabs!\" he exclaimed. \"Twenty after four! I can't stay, old man;\nI've got a date at 4:30.\" \"Why did you come, then?\" asked Ravenel, with sarcastic jocularity,\n\"if you had an engagement at that time. I thought you business men\nkept better account of your minutes and seconds than that.\" Sammy hesitated in the doorway and turned pinker.", "words": 270}, {"story": 13, "title": "ROSES, RUSES AND ROMANCE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Fact is, Ravvy,\" he explained, as to a customer whose margin is\nexhausted, \"I didn't know I had it till I came. I'll tell you, old\nman--there's a dandy girl in that old house next door that I'm dead\ngone on. I put it straight--we're engaged. The old man says 'nit' but\nthat don't go. He keeps her pretty close. I can see Edith's window\nfrom yours here. She gives me a tip when she's going shopping, and I\nmeet her. It's 4:30 to-day. Maybe I ought to have explained sooner,\nbut I know it's all right with you--so long.\" \"How do you get your 'tip,' as you call it?\" asked Ravenel, losing a\nlittle spontaneity from his smile. \"Roses,\" said Sammy, briefly. \"Four of 'em to-day. Means four o'clock\nat the corner of Broadway and Twenty-third.\" \"But the geranium?\" persisted Ravenel, clutching at the end of flying\nRomance's trailing robe. \"Means half-past,\" shouted Sammy from the hall. \"See you\nto-morrow.\" XVI", "words": 162}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"During the recent warmed-over spell,\" said my friend Carney, driver\nof express wagon No. 8,606, \"a good many opportunities was had of\nobserving human nature through peekaboo waists. \"The Park Commissioner and the Commissioner of Polis and the Forestry\nCommission gets together and agrees to let the people sleep in the\nparks until the Weather Bureau gets the thermometer down again to\na living basis. So they draws up open-air resolutions and has them\nO.K.'d by the Secretary of Agriculture, Mr. Comstock and the Village\nImprovement Mosquito Exterminating Society of South Orange, N. J. \"When the proclamation was made opening up to the people by special\ngrant the public parks that belong to 'em, there was a general exodus\ninto Central Park by the communities existing along its borders.\nIn ten minutes after sundown you'd have thought that there was an\nundress rehearsal of a potato famine in Ireland and a Kishineff\nmassacre. They come by families, gangs, clambake societies, clans,\nclubs and tribes from all sides to enjoy a cool sleep on the grass.\nThem that didn't have oil stoves brought along plenty of blankets,\nso as not to be upset with the cold and discomforts of sleeping\noutdoors. By building fires of the shade trees and huddling together\nin the bridle paths, and burrowing under the grass where the ground\nwas soft enough, the likes of 5,000 head of people successfully\nbattled against the night air in Central Park alone. \"Ye know I live in the elegant furnished apartment house called the\nBeersheba Flats, over against the elevated portion of the New York\nCentral Railroad.", "words": 267}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"When the order come to the flats that all hands must turn out and\nsleep in the park, according to the instructions of the consulting\ncommittee of the City Club and the Murphy Draying, Returfing and\nSodding Company, there was a look of a couple of fires and an\neviction all over the place. \"The tenants began to pack up feather beds, rubber boots, strings of\ngarlic, hot-water bags, portable canoes and scuttles of coal to take\nalong for the sake of comfort. The sidewalk looked like a Russian\ncamp in Oyama's line of march. There was wailing and lamenting up\nand down stairs from Danny Geoghegan's flat on the top floor to the\napartments of Missis Goldsteinupski on the first. \"'For why,' says Danny, coming down and raging in his blue yarn socks\nto the janitor, 'should I be turned out of me comfortable apartments\nto lay in the dirty grass like a rabbit? 'Tis like Jerome to stir up\ntrouble wid small matters like this instead of--' \"'Whist!' says Officer Reagan on the sidewalk, rapping with his club.\n''Tis not Jerome. 'Tis by order of the Polis Commissioner. Turn out\nevery one of yez and hike yerselves to the park.'", "words": 202}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Now, 'twas a peaceful and happy home that all of us had in them same\nBeersheba Flats. The O'Dowds and the Steinowitzes and the Callahans\nand the Cohens and the Spizzinellis and the McManuses and the\nSpiegelmayers and the Joneses--all nations of us, we lived like one\nbig family together. And when the hot nights come along we kept a\nline of children reaching from the front door to Kelly's on the\ncorner passing along the cans of beer from one to another without the\ntrouble of running after it. And with no more clothing on than is\nprovided for in the statutes, sitting in all the windies, with a\ncool growler in every one, and your feet out in the air, and the\nRosenstein girls singing on the fire-escape of the sixth floor, and\nPatsy Rourke's flute going in the eighth, and the ladies calling each\nother synonyms out the windie, and now and then a breeze sailing in\nover Mister Depew's Central--I tell you the Beersheba Flats was a\nsummer resort that made the Catskills look like a hole in the ground.\nWith his person full of beer and his feet out the windy and his old\nwoman frying pork chops over a charcoal furnace and the childher\ndancing in cotton slips on the sidewalk around the organ-grinder and\nthe rent paid for a week--what does a man want better on a hot night\nthan that? And then comes this ruling of the polis driving people out\no' their comfortable homes to sleep in parks--'twas for all the world\nlike a ukase of them Russians--'twill be heard from again at next\nelection time. \"Well, then, Officer Reagan drives the whole lot of us to the park\nand turns us in by the nearest gate. 'Tis dark under the trees, and\nall the children sets up to howling that they want to go home.", "words": 315}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"'Ye'll pass the night in this stretch of woods and scenery,' says\nOfficer Reagan. ''Twill be fine and imprisonment for insoolting the\nPark Commissioner and the Chief of the Weather Bureau if ye refuse.\nI'm in charge of thirty acres between here and the Agyptian Monument,\nand I advise ye to give no trouble. 'Tis sleeping on the grass yez\nall have been condemned to by the authorities. Yez'll be permitted\nto leave in the morning, but ye must retoorn be night. Me orders was\nsilent on the subject of bail, but I'll find out if 'tis required and\nthere'll be bondsmen at the gate.' \"There being no lights except along the automobile drives, us 179\ntenants of the Beersheba Flats prepared to spend the night as best we\ncould in the raging forest. Them that brought blankets and kindling\nwood was best off. They got fires started and wrapped the blankets\nround their heads and laid down, cursing, in the grass. There was\nnothing to see, nothing to drink, nothing to do. In the dark we had\nno way of telling friend or foe except by feeling the noses of 'em. I\nbrought along me last winter overcoat, me tooth-brush, some quinine\npills and the red quilt off the bed in me flat. Three times during\nthe night somebody rolled on me quilt and stuck his knees against the\nAdam's apple of me. And three times I judged his character by running\nme hand over his face, and three times I rose up and kicked the\nintruder down the hill to the gravelly walk below. And then some one\nwith a flavour of Kelly's whiskey snuggled up to me, and I found\nhis nose turned up the right way, and I says: 'Is that you, then,\nPatsey?' and he says, 'It is, Carney. How long do you think it'll\nlast?'", "words": 311}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"'I'm no weather-prophet,' says I, 'but if they bring out a strong\nanti-Tammany ticket next fall it ought to get us home in time to\nsleep on a bed once or twice before they line us up at the polls.' \"'A-playing of my flute into the airshaft, says Patsey Rourke, 'and\na-perspiring in me own windy to the joyful noise of the passing\ntrains and the smell of liver and onions and a-reading of the latest\nmurder in the smoke of the cooking is well enough for me,' says he.\n'What is this herding us in grass for, not to mention the crawling\nthings with legs that walk up the trousers of us, and the Jersey\nsnipes that peck at us, masquerading under the name and denomination\nof mosquitoes. What is it all for Carney, and the rint going on just\nthe same over at the flats?' \"''Tis the great annual Municipal Free Night Outing Lawn Party,' says\nI, 'given by the polis, Hetty Green and the Drug Trust. During the\nheated season they hold a week of it in the principal parks. 'Tis a\nscheme to reach that portion of the people that's not worth taking up\nto North Beach for a fish fry.' \"'I can't sleep on the ground,' says Patsey, 'wid any benefit. I\nhave the hay fever and the rheumatism, and me car is full of ants.'", "words": 231}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Well, the night goes on, and the ex-tenants of the Flats groans and\nstumbles around in the dark, trying to find rest and recreation in\nthe forest. The children is screaming with the coldness, and the\njanitor makes hot tea for 'em and keeps the fires going with the\nsignboards that point to the Tavern and the Casino. The tenants try\nto lay down on the grass by families in the dark, but you're lucky if\nyou can sleep next to a man from the same floor or believing in the\nsame religion. Now and then a Murpby, accidental, rolls over on the\ngrass of a Rosenstein, or a Cohen tries to crawl under the O'Grady\nbush, and then there's a feeling of noses and somebody is rolled down\nthe hill to the driveway and stays there. There is some hair-pulling\namong the women folks, and everybody spanks the nearest howling kid\nto him by the sense of feeling only, regardless of its parentage and\nownership. 'Tis hard to keep up the social distinctions in the dark\nthat flourish by daylight in the Beersheba Flats. Mrs. Rafferty, that\ndespises the asphalt that a Dago treads on, wakes up in the morning\nwith her feet in the bosom of Antonio Spizzinelli. And Mike O'Dowd,\nthat always threw peddlers downstairs as fast as he came upon 'em,\nhas to unwind old Isaacstein's whiskers from around his neck, and\nwake up the whole gang at daylight. But here and there some few got\nacquainted and overlooked the discomforts of the elements. There\nwas five engagements to be married announced at the flats the next\nmorning.", "words": 272}, {"story": 14, "title": "THE CITY OF DREADFUL NIGHT", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"About midnight I gets up and wrings the dew out of my hair, and goes\nto the side of the driveway and sits down. At one side of the park I\ncould see the lights in the streets and houses; and I was thinking\nhow happy them folks was who could chase the duck and smoke their\npipes at their windows, and keep cool and pleasant like nature\nintended for 'em to. \"Just then an automobile stops by me, and a fine-looking,\nwell-dressed man steps out. \"'Me man,' says he, 'can you tell me why all these people are lying\naround on the grass in the park? I thought it was against the rules.' \"''Twas an ordinance,' says I, 'just passed by the Polis Department\nand ratified by the Turf Cutters' Association, providing that all\npersons not carrying a license number on their rear axles shall keep\nin the public parks until further notice. Fortunately, the orders\ncomes this year during a spell of fine weather, and the mortality,\nexcept on the borders of the lake and along the automobile drives,\nwill not be any greater than usual.' \"'Who are these people on the side of the hill?' asks the man. \"'Sure,' says I, 'none others than the tenants of the Beersheba\nFlats--a fine home for any man, especially on hot nights. May\ndaylight come soon!' \"'They come here be night,' says he, 'and breathe in the pure air\nand the fragrance of the flowers and trees. They do that,' says he,\n'coming every night from the burning heat of dwellings of brick and\nstone.' \"'And wood,' says I. 'And marble and plaster and iron.' \"'The matter will be attended to at once,' says the man, putting up\nhis book. \"'Are ye the Park Commissioner?' I asks.", "words": 297}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It is hardly likely that a goddess may die. Then Eastre, the old\nSaxon goddess of spring, must be laughing in her muslin sleeve at\npeople who believe that Easter, her namesake, exists only along\ncertain strips of Fifth Avenue pavement after church service. Aye! It belongs to the world. The ptarmigan in Chilkoot Pass discards\nhis winter white feathers for brown; the Patagonian Beau Brummell\noils his chignon and clubs him another sweetheart to drag to his\nskull-strewn flat. And down in Chrystie Street-- Mr. \"Tiger\" McQuirk arose with a feeling of disquiet that he did not\nunderstand. With a practised foot he rolled three of his younger\nbrothers like logs out of his way as they lay sleeping on the floor.\nBefore a foot-square looking glass hung by the window he stood and\nshaved himself. If that may seem to you a task too slight to be\nthus impressively chronicled, I bear with you; you do not know of\nthe areas to be accomplished in traversing the cheek and chin of Mr.\nMcQuirk. McQuirk, senior, had gone to work long before. The big son of the\nhouse was idle. He was a marble-cutter, and the marble-cutters were\nout on a strike. \"What ails ye?\" asked his mother, looking at him curiously; \"are ye\nnot feeling well the morning, maybe now?\" \"He's thinking along of Annie Maria Doyle,\" impudently explained\nyounger brother Tim, ten years old. \"Tiger\" reached over the hand of a champion and swept the small\nMcQuirk from his chair. \"I feel fine,\" said he, \"beyond a touch of the\nI-don't-know-what-you-call-its. I feel like there was going to be\nearthquakes or music or a trifle of chills and fever or maybe a\npicnic. I don't know how I feel. I feel like knocking the face off a\npoliceman, or else maybe like playing Coney Island straight across\nthe board from pop-corn to the elephant houdahs.\"", "words": 318}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"It's the spring in yer bones,\" said Mrs. McQuirk. \"It's the sap\nrisin'. Time was when I couldn't keep me feet still nor me head cool\nwhen the earthworms began to crawl out in the dew of the mornin'.\n'Tis a bit of tea will do ye good, made from pipsissewa and gentian\nbark at the druggist's.\" \"Back up!\" said Mr. McQuirk, impatiently. \"There's no spring in\nsight. There's snow yet on the shed in Donovan's backyard. And\nyesterday they puts open cars on the Sixth Avenue lines, and the\njanitors have quit ordering coal. And that means six weeks more of\nwinter, by all the signs that be.\" After breakfast Mr. McQuirk spent fifteen minutes before the\ncorrugated mirror, subjugating his hair and arranging his\ngreen-and-purple ascot with its amethyst tombstone pin--eloquent of\nhis chosen calling. Since the strike had been called it was this particular striker's\nhabit to hie himself each morning to the corner saloon of Flaherty\nBrothers, and there establish himself upon the sidewalk, with one\nfoot resting on the bootblack's stand, observing the panorama of the\nstreet until the pace of time brought twelve o'clock and the dinner\nhour. And Mr. \"Tiger\" McQuirk, with his athletic seventy inches,\nwell trained in sport and battle; his smooth, pale, solid, amiable\nface--blue where the razor had travelled; his carefully considered\nclothes and air of capability, was himself a spectacle not\ndispleasing to the eye. But on this morning Mr. McQuirk did not hasten immediately to his\npost of leisure and observation. Something unusual that he could\nnot quite grasp was in the air. Something disturbed his thoughts,\nruffled his senses, made him at once languid, irritable, elated,\ndissastisfied and sportive. He was no diagnostician, and he did not\nknow that Lent was breaking up physiologically in his system.", "words": 301}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mrs. McQuirk had spoken of spring. Sceptically Tiger looked about him\nfor signs. Few they were. The organ-grinders were at work; but they\nwere always precocious harbingers. It was near enough spring for them\nto go penny-hunting when the skating ball dropped at the park. In the\nmilliners' windows Easter hats, grave, gay and jubilant, blossomed.\nThere were green patches among the sidewalk debris of the grocers. On\na third-story window-sill the first elbow cushion of the season--old\ngold stripes on a crimson ground--supported the kimonoed arms of a\npensive brunette. The wind blew cold from the East River, but the\nsparrows were flying to the eaves with straws. A second-hand store,\ncombining foresight with faith, had set out an ice-chest and baseball\ngoods. And then \"Tiger's\" eye, discrediting these signs, fell upon one that\nbore a bud of promise. From a bright, new lithograph the head of\nCapricornus confronted him, betokening the forward and heady brew. Mr. McQuirk entered the saloon and called for his glass of bock. He\nthrew his nickel on the bar, raised the glass, set it down without\ntasting it and strolled toward the door. \"Wot's the matter, Lord Bolinbroke?\" inquired the sarcastic\nbartender; \"want a chiny vase or a gold-lined \u00e9pergne to drink it out\nof--hey?\" \"Say,\" said Mr. McQuirk, wheeling and shooting out a horizontal hand\nand a forty-five-degree chin, \"you know your place only when it comes\nfor givin' titles. I've changed me mind about drinkin--see? You got\nyour money, ain't you? Wait till you get stung before you get the\ndroop to your lip, will you?\" Thus Mr. Quirk added mutability of desires to the strange humors that\nhad taken possession of him. Leaving the saloon, he walked away twenty steps and leaned in the\nopen doorway of Lutz, the barber. He and Lutz were friends, masking\ntheir sentiments behind abuse and bludgeons of repartee.", "words": 314}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Irish loafer,\" roared Lutz, \"how do you do? So, not yet haf der\nbolicemans or der catcher of dogs done deir duty!\" \"Hello, Dutch,\" said Mr. McQuirk. \"Can't get your mind off of\nfrankfurters, can you?\" \"Bah!\" exclaimed the German, coming and leaning in the door. \"I haf\na soul above frankfurters to-day. Dere is springtime in der air. I\ncan feel it coming in ofer der mud of der streets and das ice in der\nriver. Soon will dere be bicnics in der islands, mit kegs of beer\nunder der trees.\" \"Say,\" said Mr. McQuirk, setting his hat on one side, \"is everybody\nkiddin' me about gentle Spring? There ain't any more spring in the\nair than there is in a horsehair sofa in a Second Avenue furnished\nroom. For me the winter underwear yet and the buckwheat cakes.\" \"You haf no boetry,\" said Lutz. \"True, it is yedt cold, und in der\ncity we haf not many of der signs; but dere are dree kinds of beoble\ndot should always feel der approach of spring first--dey are boets,\nlovers and poor vidows.\" Mr. McQuirk went on his way, still possessed by the strange\nperturbation that he did not understand. Something was lacking to his\ncomfort, and it made him half angry because he did not know what it\nwas. Two blocks away he came upon a foe, one Conover, whom he was bound in\nhonor to engage in combat. Mr. McQuirk made the attack with the characteristic suddenness\nand fierceness that had gained for him the endearing sobriquet of\n\"Tiger.\" The defence of Mr. Conover was so prompt and admirable that\nthe conflict was protracted until the onlookers unselfishly gave the\nwarning cry of \"Cheese it--the cop!\" The principals escaped easily\nby running through the nearest open doors into the communicating\nbackyards at the rear of the houses.", "words": 310}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. McQuirk emerged into another street. He stood by a lamp-post\nfor a few minutes engaged in thought and then he turned and plunged\ninto a small notion and news shop. A red-haired young woman, eating\ngum-drops, came and looked freezingly at him across the ice-bound\nsteppes of the counter. \"Say, lady,\" he said, \"have you got a song book with this in it.\nLet's see how it leads off-- \"'When the springtime comes we'll wander in the dale, love,\n And whisper of those days of yore--' \"I'm having a friend,\" explained Mr. McQuirk, \"laid up with a broken\nleg, and he sent me after it. He's a devil for songs and poetry when\nhe can't get out to drink.\" \"We have not,\" replied the young woman, with unconcealed contempt.\n\"But there is a new song out that begins this way: \"'Let us sit together in the old arm-chair;\n And while the firelight flickers we'll be comfortable there.'\" There will be no profit in following Mr. \"Tiger\" McQuirk through his\nfurther vagaries of that day until he comes to stand knocking at the\ndoor of Annie Maria Doyle. The goddess Eastre, it seems, had guided\nhis footsteps aright at last. \"Is that you now, Jimmy McQuirk?\" she cried, smiling through the\nopened door (Annie Maria had never accepted the \"Tiger\"). \"Well,\nwhatever!\" \"Come out in the hall,\" said Mr. McQuirk. \"I want to ask yer opinion\nof the weather--on the level.\" \"Are you crazy, sure?\" said Annie Maria. \"I am,\" said the \"Tiger.\" \"They've been telling me all day there was\nspring in the air. Were they liars? Or am I?\" \"Dear me!\" said Annie Maria--\"haven't you noticed it? I can almost\nsmell the violets. And the green grass. Of course, there ain't any\nyet--it's just a kind of feeling, you know.\"", "words": 302}, {"story": 15, "title": "THE EASTER OF THE SOUL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"That's what I'm getting at,\" said Mr. McQuirk. \"I've had it.\nI didn't recognize it at first. I thought maybe it was en-wee,\ncontracted the other day when I stepped above Fourteenth Street. But\nthe katzenjammer I've got don't spell violets. It spells yer own\nname, Annie Maria, and it's you I want. I go to work next Monday, and\nI make four dollars a day. Spiel up, old girl--do we make a team?\" \"Jimmy,\" sighed Annie Maria, suddenly disappearing in his overcoat,\n\"don't you see that spring is all over the world right this minute?\" But you yourself remember how that day ended. Beginning with so fine\na promise of vernal things, late in the afternoon the air chilled\nand an inch of snow fell--even so late in March. On Fifth Avenue the\nladies drew their winter furs close about them. Only in the florists'\nwindows could be perceived any signs of the morning smile of the\ncoming goddess Eastre. At six o'clock Herr Lutz began to close his shop. He heard a\nwell-known shout: \"Hello, Dutch!\" \"Tiger\" McQuirk, in his shirt-sleeves, with his hat on the back of\nhis head, stood outside in the whirling snow, puffing at a black\ncigar. \"Donnerwetter!\" shouted Lutz, \"der vinter, he has gome back again\nyet!\" \"Yer a liar, Dutch,\" called back Mr. McQuirk, with friendly\ngeniality, \"it's springtime, by the watch.\" XVIII", "words": 231}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Down South whenever any one perpetrates some particularly monumental\npiece of foolishness everybody says: \"Send for Jesse Holmes.\" Jesse Holmes is the Fool-Killer. Of course he is a myth, like Santa\nClaus and Jack Frost and General Prosperity and all those concrete\nconceptions that are supposed to represent an idea that Nature has\nfailed to embody. The wisest of the Southrons cannot tell you whence\ncomes the Fool-Killer's name; but few and happy are the households\nfrom the Roanoke to the Rio Grande in which the name of Jesse Holmes\nhas not been pronounced or invoked. Always with a smile, and often\nwith a tear, is he summoned to his official duty. A busy man is Jesse\nHolmes. I remember the clear picture of him that hung on the walls of my\nfancy during my barefoot days when I was dodging his oft-threatened\ndevoirs. To me he was a terrible old man, in gray clothes, with a\nlong, ragged, gray beard, and reddish, fierce eyes. I looked to see\nhim come stumping up the road in a cloud of dust, with a white oak\nstaff in his hand and his shoes tied with leather thongs. I may yet-- But this is a story, not a sequel. I have taken notice with regret, that few stories worth reading\nhave been written that did not contain drink of some sort. Down go\nthe fluids, from Arizona Dick's three fingers of red pizen to the\ninefficacious Oolong that nerves Lionel Montressor to repartee in\nthe \"Dotty Dialogues.\" So, in such good company I may introduce an\nabsinthe drip--one absinthe drip, dripped through a silver dripper,\norderly, opalescent, cool, green-eyed--deceptive.", "words": 276}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Kerner was a fool. Besides that, he was an artist and my good friend.\nNow, if there is one thing on earth utterly despicable to another, it\nis an artist in the eyes of an author whose story he has illustrated.\nJust try it once. Write a story about a mining camp in Idaho. Sell\nit. Spend the money, and then, six months later, borrow a quarter (or\na dime), and buy the magazine containing it. You find a full-page\nwash drawing of your hero, Black Bill, the cowboy. Somewhere in your\nstory you employed the word \"horse.\" Aha! the artist has grasped the\nidea. Black Bill has on the regulation trousers of the M. F. H. of\nthe Westchester County Hunt. He carries a parlor rifle, and wears a\nmonocle. In the distance is a section of Forty-second Street during a\nsearch for a lost gas-pipe, and the Taj Mahal, the famous mausoleum\nin India.", "words": 156}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Enough! I hated Kerner, and one day I met him and we became friends.\nHe was young and gloriously melancholy because his spirits were\nso high and life had so much in store for him. Yes, he was almost\nriotously sad. That was his youth. When a man begins to be hilarious\nin a sorrowful way you can bet a million that he is dyeing his hair.\nKerner's hair was plentiful and carefully matted as an artist's\nthatch should be. He was a cigaretteur, and he audited his dinners\nwith red wine. But, most of all, he was a fool. And, wisely, I\nenvied him, and listened patiently while he knocked Velasquez and\nTintoretto. Once he told me that he liked a story of mine that he had\ncome across in an anthology. He described it to me, and I was sorry\nthat Mr. Fitz-James O'Brien was dead and could not learn of the\neulogy of his work. But mostly Kerner made few breaks and was a\nconsistent fool. I'd better explain what I mean by that. There was a girl. Now, a\ngirl, as far as I am concerned, is a thing that belongs in a seminary\nor an album; but I conceded the existence of the animal in order to\nretain Kerner's friendship. He showed me her picture in a locket--she\nwas a blonde or a brunette--I have forgotten which. She worked in a\nfactory for eight dollars a week. Lest factories quote this wage by\nway of vindication, I will add that the girl had worked for five\nyears to reach that supreme elevation of remuneration, beginning at\n$1.50 per week.", "words": 274}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Kerner's father was worth a couple of millions He was willing to\nstand for art, but he drew the line at the factory girl. So Kerner\ndisinherited his father and walked out to a cheap studio and lived\non sausages for breakfast and on Farroni for dinner. Farroni had the\nartistic soul and a line of credit for painters and poets, nicely\nadjusted. Sometimes Kerner sold a picture and bought some new\ntapestry, a ring and a dozen silk cravats, and paid Farroni two\ndollars on account. One evening Kerner had me to dinner with himself and the factory\ngirl. They were to be married as soon as Kerner could slosh paint\nprofitably. As for the ex-father's two millions--pouf!", "words": 119}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "She was a wonder. Small and half-way pretty, and as much at her ease\nin that cheap caf\u00e9 as though she were only in the Palmer House,\nChicago, with a souvenir spoon already safely hidden in her shirt\nwaist. She was natural. Two things I noticed about her especially.\nHer belt buckle was exactly in the middle of her back, and she didn't\ntell us that a large man with a ruby stick-pin had followed her\nup all the way from Fourteenth Street. Was Kerner such a fool? I\nwondered. And then I thought of the quantity of striped cuffs and\nblue glass beads that $2,000,000 can buy for the heathen, and I said\nto myself that he was. And then Elise--certainly that was her name--\ntold us, merrily, that the brown spot on her waist was caused by\nher landlady knocking at the door while she (the girl--confound the\nEnglish language) was heating an iron over the gas jet, and she hid\nthe iron under the bedclothes until the coast was clear, and there\nwas the piece of chewing gum stuck to it when she began to iron the\nwaist, and--well, I wondered how in the world the chewing gum came to\nbe there--don't they ever stop chewing it? A while after that--don't be impatient, the absinthe drip is coming\nnow--Kerner and I were dining at Farroni's. A mandolin and a guitar\nwere being attacked; the room was full of smoke in nice, long crinkly\nlayers just like the artists draw the steam from a plum pudding on\nChristmas posters, and a lady in a blue silk and gasolined gauntlets\nwas beginning to hum an air from the Catskills. \"Kerner,\" said I, \"you are a fool.\"", "words": 287}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Of course,\" said Kerner, \"I wouldn't let her go on working. Not my\nwife. What's the use to wait? She's willing. I sold that water color\nof the Palisades yesterday. We could cook on a two-burner gas stove.\nYou know the ragouts I can throw together? Yes, I think we will marry\nnext week.\" \"Kerner,\" said I, \"you are a fool.\" \"Have an absinthe drip?\" said Kerner, grandly. \"To-night you are the\nguest of Art in paying quantities. I think we will get a flat with a\nbath.\" \"I never tried one--I mean an absinthe drip,\" said I. The waiter brought it and poured the water slowly over the ice in the\ndripper. \"It looks exactly like the Mississippi River water in the big bend\nbelow Natchez,\" said I, fascinated, gazing at the be-muddled drip. \"There are such flats for eight dollars a week,\" said Kerner. \"You are a fool,\" said I, and began to sip the filtration. \"What you\nneed,\" I continued, \"is the official attention of one Jesse Holmes.\" Kerner, not being a Southerner, did not comprehend, so he sat,\nsentimental, figuring on his flat in his sordid, artistic way, while\nI gazed into the green eyes of the sophisticated Spirit of Wormwood. Presently I noticed casually that a procession of bacchantes limned\non the wall immediately below the ceiling had begun to move,\ntraversing the room from right to left in a gay and spectacular\npilgrimage. I did not confide my discovery to Kerner. The artistic\ntemperament is too high-strung to view such deviations from the\nnatural laws of the art of kalsomining. I sipped my absinthe drip and\nsawed wormwood. One absinthe drip is not much--but I said again to Kerner, kindly: \"You are a fool.\" And then, in the vernacular: \"Jesse Holmes for\nyours.\"", "words": 299}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And then I looked around and saw the Fool-Killer, as he had always\nappeared to my imagination, sitting at a nearby table, and regarding\nus with his reddish, fatal, relentless eyes. He was Jesse Holmes from\ntop to toe; he had the long, gray, ragged beard, the gray clothes of\nancient cut, the executioner's look, and the dusty shoes of one who\nhad been called from afar. His eyes were turned fixedly upon Kerner.\nI shuddered to think that I had invoked him from his assiduous\nsouthern duties. I thought of flying, and then I kept my seat,\nreflecting that many men had escaped his ministrations when it seemed\nthat nothing short of an appointment as Ambassador to Spain could\nsave them from him. I had called my brother Kerner a fool and was in\ndanger of hell fire. That was nothing; but I would try to save him\nfrom Jesse Holmes. The Fool-Killer got up from his table and came over to ours. He\nrested his hands upon it, and turned his burning, vindictive eyes\nupon Kerner, ignoring me. \"You are a hopeless fool,\" he said to the artist. \"Haven't you had\nenough of starvation yet? I offer you one more opportunity. Give up\nthis girl and come back to your home. Refuse, and you must take the\nconsequences.\" The Fool-Killer's threatening face was within a foot of his victim's;\nbut to my horror, Kerner made not the slightest sign of being aware\nof his presence. \"We will be married next week,\" he muttered absent-mindedly. \"With my\nstudio furniture and some second-hand stuff we can make out.\" \"You have decided your own fate,\" said the Fool-Killer, in a low but\nterrible voice. \"You may consider yourself as one dead. You have had\nyour last chance.\"", "words": 296}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"In the moonlight,\" went on Kerner, softly, \"we will sit under the\nskylight with our guitar and sing away the false delights of pride\nand money.\" \"On your own head be it,\" hissed the Fool-Killer, and my scalp\nprickled when I perceived that neither Kerner's eyes nor his ears\ntook the slightest cognizance of Jesse Holmes. And then I knew that\nfor some reason the veil had been lifted for me alone, and that I had\nbeen elected to save my friend from destruction at the Fool-Killer's\nhands. Something of the fear and wonder of it must have showed itself\nin my face. \"Excuse me,\" said Kerner, with his wan, amiable smile; \"was I talking\nto myself? I think it is getting to be a habit with me.\" The Fool-Killer turned and walked out of Farroni's. \"Wait here for me,\" said I, rising; \"I must speak to that man. Had\nyou no answer for him? Because you are a fool must you die like a\nmouse under his foot? Could you not utter one squeak in your own\ndefence? \"You are drunk,\" said Kerner, heartlessly. \"No one addressed me.\" \"The destroyer of your mind,\" said I, \"stood above you just now and\nmarked you for his victim. You are not blind or deaf.\" \"I recognized no such person,\" said Kerner. \"I have seen no one\nbut you at this table. Sit down. Hereafter you shall have no more\nabsinthe drips.\" \"Wait here,\" said I, furious; \"if you don't care for your own life, I\nwill save it for you.\" I hurried out and overtook the man in gray half-way down the block.\nHe looked as I had seen him in my fancy a thousand times--truculent,\ngray and awful. He walked with the white oak staff, and but for the\nstreet-sprinkler the dust would have been flying under his tread.", "words": 309}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I caught him by the sleeve and steered him to a dark angle of a\nbuilding. I knew he was a myth, and I did not want a cop to see me\nconversing with vacancy, for I might land in Bellevue minus my silver\nmatchbox and diamond ring. \"Jesse Holmes,\" said I, facing him with apparent bravery, \"I know\nyou. I have heard of you all my life. I know now what a scourge\nyou have been to your country. Instead of killing fools you have\nbeen murdering the youth and genius that are necessary to make a\npeople live and grow great. You are a fool yourself, Holmes; you\nbegan killing off the brightest and best of our countrymen three\ngenerations ago, when the old and obsolete standards of society and\nhonor and orthodoxy were narrow and bigoted. You proved that when you\nput your murderous mark upon my friend Kerner--the wisest chap I ever\nknew in my life.\" The Fool-Killer looked at me grimly and closely. \"You've a queer jag,\" said he, curiously. \"Oh, yes; I see who you\nare now. You were sitting with him at the table. Well, if I'm not\nmistaken, I heard you call him a fool, too.\" \"I did,\" said I. \"I delight in doing so. It is from envy. By all the\nstandards that you know he is the most egregious and grandiloquent\nand gorgeous fool in all the world. That's why you want to kill him.\" \"Would you mind telling me who or what you think I am?\" asked the old\nman. I laughed boisterously and then stopped suddenly, for I remembered\nthat it would not do to be seen so hilarious in the company of\nnothing but a brick wall.", "words": 290}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"You are Jesse Holmes, the Fool-Killer,\" I said, solemnly, \"and you\nare going to kill my friend Kerner. I don't know who rang you up, but\nif you do kill him I'll see that you get pinched for it. That is,\" I\nadded, despairingly, \"if I can get a cop to see you. They have a poor\neye for mortals, and I think it would take the whole force to round\nup a myth murderer.\" \"Well,\" said the Fool-Killer, briskly, \"I must be going. You had\nbetter go home and sleep it off. Good-night.\" At this I was moved by a sudden fear for Kerner to a softer and more\npleading mood. I leaned against the gray man's sleeve and besought\nhim: \"Good Mr. Fool-Killer, please don't kill little Kerner. Why can't you\ngo back South and kill Congressmen and clay-eaters and let us alone?\nWhy don't you go up on Fifth Avenue and kill millionaires that keep\ntheir money locked up and won't let young fools marry because one of\n'em lives on the wrong street? Come and have a drink, Jesse. Will you\nnever get on to your job?\" \"Do you know this girl that your friend has made himself a fool\nabout?\" asked the Fool-Killer. \"I have the honor,\" said I, \"and that's why I called Kerner a fool.\nHe is a fool because he has waited so long before marrying her. He\nis a fool because he has been waiting in the hopes of getting the\nconsent of some absurd two-million-dollar-fool parent or something of\nthe sort.\" \"Maybe,\" said the Fool-Killer--\"maybe I--I might have looked at it\ndifferently. Would you mind going back to the restaurant and bringing\nyour friend Kerner here?\" \"Oh, what's the use, Jesse,\" I yawned. \"He can't see you. He didn't\nknow you were talking to him at the table, You are a fictitious\ncharacter, you know.\"", "words": 315}, {"story": 16, "title": "THE FOOL-KILLER", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Maybe he can this time. Will you go fetch him?\" \"All right,\" said I, \"but I've a suspicion that you're not strictly\nsober, Jesse. You seem to be wavering and losing your outlines. Don't\nvanish before I get back.\" I went back to Kerner and said: \"There's a man with an invisible homicidal mania waiting to see you\noutside. I believe he wants to murder you. Come along. You won't see\nhim, so there's nothing to be frightened about.\" Kerner looked anxious. \"Why,\" said he, \"I had no idea one absinthe would do that. You'd\nbetter stick to W\u00fcrzburger. I'll walk home with you.\" I led him to Jesse Holmes's. \"Rudolf,\" said the Fool-Killer, \"I'll give in. Bring her up to the\nhouse. Give me your hand, boy.\" \"Good for you, dad,\" said Kerner, shaking hands with the old man.\n\"You'll never regret it after you know her.\" \"So, you did see him when he was talking to you at the table?\" I\nasked Kerner. \"We hadn't spoken to each other in a year,\" said Kerner. \"It's all\nright now.\" I walked away. \"Where are you going?\" called Kerner. \"I am going to look for Jesse Holmes,\" I answered, with dignity and\nreserve. XIX", "words": 204}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There is a hotel on Broadway that has escaped discovery by the\nsummer-resort promoters. It is deep and wide and cool. Its rooms are\nfinished in dark oak of a low temperature. Home-made breezes and\ndeep-green shrubbery give it the delights without the inconveniences\nof the Adirondacks. One can mount its broad staircases or glide\ndreamily upward in its a\u00ebrial elevators, attended by guides in brass\nbuttons, with a serene joy that Alpine climbers have never attained.\nThere is a chef in its kitchen who will prepare for you brook trout\nbetter than the White Mountains ever served, sea food that would turn\nOld Point Comfort--\"by Gad, sah!\"--green with envy, and Maine venison\nthat would melt the official heart of a game warden. A few have found out this oasis in the July desert of Manhattan.\nDuring that month you will see the hotel's reduced array of guests\nscattered luxuriously about in the cool twilight of its lofty\ndining-room, gazing at one another across the snowy waste of\nunoccupied tables, silently congratulatory. Superfluous, watchful, pneumatically moving waiters hover near,\nsupplying every want before it is expressed. The temperature\nis perpetual April. The ceiling is painted in water colors to\ncounterfeit a summer sky across which delicate clouds drift and do\nnot vanish as those of nature do to our regret. The pleasing, distant roar of Broadway is transformed in the\nimagination of the happy guests to the noise of a waterfall filling\nthe woods with its restful sound. At every strange footstep the\nguests turn an anxious ear, fearful lest their retreat be discovered\nand invaded by the restless pleasure-seekers who are forever hounding\nnature to her deepest lairs. Thus in the depopulated caravansary the little band of connoisseurs\njealously hide themselves during the heated season, enjoying to the\nuttermost the delights of mountain and seashore that art and skill\nhave gathered and served to them.", "words": 316}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In this July came to the hotel one whose card that she sent to\nthe clerk for her name to be registered read \"Mme. H\u00e9loise D'Arcy\nBeaumont.\" Madame Beaumont was a guest such as the Hotel Lotus loved. She\npossessed the fine air of the \u00e9lite, tempered and sweetened by a\ncordial graciousness that made the hotel employees her slaves.\nBell-boys fought for the honor of answering her ring; the clerks, but\nfor the question of ownership, would have deeded to her the hotel\nand its contents; the other guests regarded her as the final touch\nof feminine exclusiveness and beauty that rendered the entourage\nperfect. This super-excellent guest rarely left the hotel. Her habits were\nconsonant with the customs of the discriminating patrons of the Hotel\nLotus. To enjoy that delectable hostelry one must forego the city as\nthough it were leagues away. By night a brief excursion to the nearby\nroofs is in order; but during the torrid day one remains in the\numbrageous fastnesses of the Lotus as a trout hangs poised in the\npellucid sanctuaries of his favorite pool. Though alone in the Hotel Lotus, Madame Beaumont preserved the state\nof a queen whose loneliness was of position only. She breakfasted at\nten, a cool, sweet, leisurely, delicate being who glowed softly in\nthe dimness like a jasmine flower in the dusk.", "words": 226}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But at dinner was Madame's glory at its height. She wore a gown as\nbeautiful and immaterial as the mist from an unseen cataract in a\nmountain gorge. The nomenclature of this gown is beyond the guess of\nthe scribe. Always pale-red roses reposed against its lace-garnished\nfront. It was a gown that the head-waiter viewed with respect and\nmet at the door. You thought of Paris when you saw it, and maybe of\nmysterious countesses, and certainly of Versailles and rapiers and\nMrs. Fiske and rouge-et-noir. There was an untraceable rumor in the\nHotel Lotus that Madame was a cosmopolite, and that she was pulling\nwith her slender white hands certain strings between the nations in\nthe favor of Russia. Being a citizeness of the world's smoothest\nroads it was small wonder that she was quick to recognize in the\nrefined purlieus of the Hotel Lotus the most desirable spot in\nAmerica for a restful sojourn during the heat of mid-summer. On the third day of Madame Beaumont's residence in the hotel a young\nman entered and registered himself as a guest. His clothing--to\nspeak of his points in approved order--was quietly in the mode;\nhis features good and regular; his expression that of a poised and\nsophisticated man of the world. He informed the clerk that he would\nremain three or four days, inquired concerning the sailing of\nEuropean steamships, and sank into the blissful inanition of the\nnonpareil hotel with the contented air of a traveller in his favorite\ninn.", "words": 253}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The young man--not to question the veracity of the register--was\nHarold Farrington. He drifted into the exclusive and calm current of\nlife in the Lotus so tactfully and silently that not a ripple alarmed\nhis fellow-seekers after rest. He ate in the Lotus and of its\npatronym, and was lulled into blissful peace with the other fortunate\nmariners. In one day he acquired his table and his waiter and the\nfear lest the panting chasers after repose that kept Broadway warm\nshould pounce upon and destroy this contiguous but covert haven. After dinner on the next day after the arrival of Harold Farrington\nMadame Beaumont dropped her handkerchief in passing out. Mr.\nFarrington recovered and returned it without the effusiveness of a\nseeker after acquaintance. Perhaps there was a mystic freemasonry between the discriminating\nguests of the Lotus. Perhaps they were drawn one to another by the\nfact of their common good fortune in discovering the acme of summer\nresorts in a Broadway hotel. Words delicate in courtesy and tentative\nin departure from formality passed between the two. And, as if in the\nexpedient atmosphere of a real summer resort, an acquaintance grew,\nflowered and fructified on the spot as does the mystic plant of the\nconjuror. For a few moments they stood on a balcony upon which the\ncorridor ended, and tossed the feathery ball of conversation. \"One tires of the old resorts,\" said Madame Beaumont, with a faint\nbut sweet smile. \"What is the use to fly to the mountains or the\nseashore to escape noise and dust when the very people that make both\nfollow us there?\" \"Even on the ocean,\" remarked Farrington, sadly, \"the Philistines be\nupon you. The most exclusive steamers are getting to be scarcely more\nthan ferry boats. Heaven help us when the summer resorter discovers\nthat the Lotus is further away from Broadway than Thousand Islands or\nMackinac.\"", "words": 316}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I hope our secret will be safe for a week, anyhow,\" said Madame,\nwith a sigh and a smile. \"I do not know where I would go if they\nshould descend upon the dear Lotus. I know of but one place so\ndelightful in summer, and that is the castle of Count Polinski, in\nthe Ural Mountains.\" \"I hear that Baden-Baden and Cannes are almost deserted this season,\"\nsaid Farrington. \"Year by year the old resorts fall in disrepute.\nPerhaps many others, like ourselves, are seeking out the quiet nooks\nthat are overlooked by the majority.\" \"I promise myself three days more of this delicious rest,\" said\nMadame Beaumont. \"On Monday the _Cedric_ sails.\" Harold Farrington's eyes proclaimed his regret. \"I too must leave on\nMonday,\" he said, \"but I do not go abroad.\" Madame Beaumont shrugged one round shoulder in a foreign gesture. \"One cannot hide here forever, charming though it may be. The ch\u00e2teau\nhas been in preparation for me longer than a month. Those house\nparties that one must give--what a nuisance! But I shall never forget\nmy week in the Hotel Lotus.\" \"Nor shall I,\" said Farrington in a low voice, \"and I shall never\nFORGIVE the _Cedric_.\" On Sunday evening, three days afterward, the two sat at a little\ntable on the same balcony. A discreet waiter brought ices and small\nglasses of claret cup. Madame Beaumont wore the same beautiful evening gown that she had\nworn each day at dinner. She seemed thoughtful. Near her hand on the\ntable lay a small chatelaine purse. After she had eaten her ice she\nopened the purse and took out a one-dollar bill.", "words": 276}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Mr. Farrington,\" she said, with the smile that had won the Hotel\nLotus, \"I want to tell you something. I'm going to leave before\nbreakfast in the morning, because I've got to go back to my work.\nI'm behind the hosiery counter at Casey's Mammoth Store, and my\nvacation's up at eight o'clock to-morrow. That paper-dollar is the\nlast cent I'll see till I draw my eight dollars salary next Saturday\nnight. You're a real gentleman, and you've been good to me, and I\nwanted to tell you before I went. \"I've been saving up out of my wages for a year just for this\nvacation. I wanted to spend one week like a lady if I never do\nanother one. I wanted to get up when I please instead of having to\ncrawl out at seven every morning; and I wanted to live on the best\nand be waited on and ring bells for things just like rich folks\ndo. Now I've done it, and I've had the happiest time I ever expect\nto have in my life. I'm going back to my work and my little hall\nbedroom satisfied for another year. I wanted to tell you about it,\nMr. Farrington, because I--I thought you kind of liked me, and I--I\nliked you. But, oh, I couldn't help deceiving you up till now, for it\nwas all just like a fairy tale to me. So I talked about Europe and\nthe things I've read about in other countries, and made you think I\nwas a great lady. \"This dress I've got on--it's the only one I have that's fit to\nwear--I bought from O'Dowd & Levinsky on the instalment plan.", "words": 282}, {"story": 17, "title": "TRANSIENTS IN ARCADIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Seventy-five dollars is the price, and it was made to measure. I\npaid $10 down, and they're to collect $1 a week till it's paid for.\nThat'll be about all I have to say, Mr. Farrington, except that my\nname is Mamie Siviter instead of Madame Beaumont, and I thank you for\nyour attentions. This dollar will pay the instalment due on the dress\nto-morrow. I guess I'll go up to my room now.\" Harold Farrington listened to the recital of the Lotus's loveliest\nguest with an impassive countenance. When she had concluded he drew\na small book like a checkbook from his coat pocket. He wrote upon a\nblank form in this with a stub of pencil, tore out the leaf, tossed\nit over to his companion and took up the paper dollar. \"I've got to go to work, too, in the morning,\" he said, \"and I might\nas well begin now. There's a receipt for the dollar instalment.\nI've been a collector for O'Dowd & Levinsky for three years. Funny,\nain't it, that you and me both had the same idea about spending our\nvacation? I've always wanted to put up at a swell hotel, and I saved\nup out of my twenty per, and did it. Say, Mame, how about a trip to\nConey Saturday night on the boat--what?\" The face of the pseudo Madame H\u00e9loise D'Arcy Beaumont beamed. \"Oh, you bet I'll go, Mr. Farrington. The store closes at twelve on\nSaturdays. I guess Coney'll be all right even if we did spend a week\nwith the swells.\" Below the balcony the sweltering city growled and buzzed in the July\nnight. Inside the Hotel Lotus the tempered, cool shadows reigned, and\nthe solicitous waiter single-footed near the low windows, ready at a\nnod to serve Madame and her escort.", "words": 303}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Miss Posie Carrington had earned her success. She began life\nhandicapped by the family name of \"Boggs,\" in the small town known\nas Cranberry Corners. At the age of eighteen she had acquired the\nname of \"Carrington\" and a position in the chorus of a metropolitan\nburlesque company. Thence upward she had ascended by the legitimate\nand delectable steps of \"broiler,\" member of the famous \"Dickey-bird\"\noctette, in the successful musical comedy, \"Fudge and Fellows,\"\nleader of the potato-bug dance in \"Fol-de-Rol,\" and at length to\nthe part of the maid \"'Toinette\" in \"The King's Bath-Robe,\" which\ncaptured the critics and gave her her chance. And when we come to\nconsider Miss Carrington she is in the heydey of flattery, fame\nand fizz; and that astute manager, Herr Timothy Goldstein, has her\nsignature to iron-clad papers that she will star the coming season in\nDyde Rich's new play, \"Paresis by Gaslight.\" Promptly there came to Herr Timothy a capable twentieth-century young\ncharacter actor by the name of Highsmith, who besought engagement as\n\"Sol Haytosser,\" the comic and chief male character part in \"Paresis\nby Gaslight.\"", "words": 185}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"My boy,\" said Goldstein, \"take the part if you can get it. Miss\nCarrington won't listen to any of my suggestions. She has turned down\nhalf a dozen of the best imitators of the rural dub in the city. She\ndeclares she won't set a foot on the stage unless 'Haytosser' is the\nbest that can be raked up. She was raised in a village, you know, and\nwhen a Broadway orchid sticks a straw in his hair and tries to call\nhimself a clover blossom she's on, all right. I asked her, in a\nsarcastic vein, if she thought Denman Thompson would make any kind\nof a show in the part. 'Oh, no,' says she. 'I don't want him or John\nDrew or Jim Corbett or any of these swell actors that don't know a\nturnip from a turnstile. I want the real article.' So, my boy, if\nyou want to play 'Sol Haytosser' you will have to convince Miss\nCarrington. Luck be with you.\" Highsmith took the train the next day for Cranberry Corners. He\nremained in that forsaken and inanimate village three days. He found\nthe Boggs family and corkscrewed their history unto the third and\nfourth generation. He amassed the facts and the local color of\nCranberry Corners. The village had not grown as rapidly as had Miss\nCarrington. The actor estimated that it had suffered as few actual\nchanges since the departure of its solitary follower of Thespis as\nhad a stage upon which \"four years is supposed to have elapsed.\" He\nabsorbed Cranberry Corners and returned to the city of chameleon\nchanges. It was in the rathskeller that Highsmith made the hit of his\nhistrionic career. There is no need to name the place; there is but\none rathskeller where you could hope to find Miss Posie Carrington\nafter a performance of \"The King's Bath-Robe.\"", "words": 311}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There was a jolly small party at one of the tables that drew many\neyes. Miss Carrington, petite, marvellous, bubbling, electric,\nfame-drunken, shall be named first. Herr Goldstein follows, sonorous,\ncurly-haired, heavy, a trifle anxious, as some bear that had caught,\nsomehow, a butterfly in his claws. Next, a man condemned to a\nnewspaper, sad, courted, armed, analyzing for press agent's dross\nevery sentence that was poured over him, eating his \u00e0 la Newburg in\nthe silence of greatness. To conclude, a youth with parted hair, a\nname that is ochre to red journals and gold on the back of a supper\ncheck. These sat at a table while the musicians played, while waiters\nmoved in the mazy performance of their duties with their backs toward\nall who desired their service, and all was bizarre and merry because\nit was nine feet below the level of the sidewalk. At 11.45 a being entered the rathskeller. The first violin\nperceptibly flatted a C that should have been natural; the\nclarionet blew a bubble instead of a grace note; Miss Carrington\ngiggled and the youth with parted hair swallowed an olive seed. Exquisitely and irreproachably rural was the new entry. A lank,\ndisconcerted, hesitating young man it was, flaxen-haired, gaping of\nmouth, awkward, stricken to misery by the lights and company. His\nclothing was butternut, with bright blue tie, showing four inches of\nbony wrist and white-socked ankle. He upset a chair, sat in another\none, curled a foot around a table leg and cringed at the approach of\na waiter. \"You may fetch me a glass of lager beer,\" he said, in response to the\ndiscreet questioning of the servitor.", "words": 279}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The eyes of the rathskeller were upon him. He was as fresh as a\ncollard and as ingenuous as a hay rake. He let his eye rove about\nthe place as one who regards, big-eyed, hogs in the potato patch.\nHis gaze rested at length upon Miss Carrington. He rose and went\nto her table with a lateral, shining smile and a blush of pleased\ntrepidation. \"How're ye, Miss Posie?\" he said in accents not to be doubted. \"Don't\nye remember me--Bill Summers--the Summerses that lived back of the\nblacksmith shop? I reckon I've growed up some since ye left Cranberry\nCorners. \"'Liza Perry 'lowed I might see ye in the city while I was here. You\nknow 'Liza married Benny Stanfield, and she says--\" \"Ah, say!\" interrupted Miss Carrington, brightly, \"Lize Perry is\nnever married--what! Oh, the freckles of her!\" \"Married in June,\" grinned the gossip, \"and livin' in the old Tatum\nPlace. Ham Riley perfessed religion; old Mrs. Blithers sold her place\nto Cap'n Spooner; the youngest Waters girl run away with a music\nteacher; the court-house burned up last March; your uncle Wiley was\nelected constable; Matilda Hoskins died from runnin' a needle in her\nhand, and Tom Beedle is courtin' Sallie Lathrop--they say he don't\nmiss a night but what he's settin' on their porch.\" \"The wall-eyed thing!\" exclaimed Miss Carrington, with asperity.\n\"Why, Tom Beedle once--say, you folks, excuse me a while--this is\nan old friend of mine--Mr.--what was it? Yes, Mr. Summers--Mr.\nGoldstein, Mr. Ricketts, Mr.-- Oh, what's yours? 'Johnny''ll do--come\non over here and tell me some more.\"", "words": 265}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "She swept him to an isolated table in a corner. Herr Goldstein\nshrugged his fat shoulders and beckoned to the waiter. The newspaper\nman brightened a little and mentioned absinthe. The youth with parted\nhair was plunged into melancholy. The guests of the rathskeller\nlaughed, clinked glasses and enjoyed the comedy that Posie Carrington\nwas treating them to after her regular performance. A few cynical\nones whispered \"press agent\"' and smiled wisely. Posie Carrington laid her dimpled and desirable chin upon her hands,\nand forgot her audience--a faculty that had won her laurels for her. \"I don't seem to recollect any Bill Summers,\" she said, thoughtfully\ngazing straight into the innocent blue eyes of the rustic young\nman. \"But I know the Summerses, all right. I guess there ain't many\nchanges in the old town. You see any of my folks lately?\" And then Highsmith played his trump. The part of \"Sol Haytosser\"\ncalled for pathos as well as comedy. Miss Carrington should see that\nhe could do that as well. \"Miss Posie,\" said \"Bill Summers,\" \"I was up to your folkeses house\njist two or three days ago. No, there ain't many changes to speak of.\nThe lilac bush by the kitchen window is over a foot higher, and the\nelm in the front yard died and had to be cut down. And yet it don't\nseem the same place that it used to be.\" \"How's ma?\" asked Miss Carrington.", "words": 241}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"She was settin' by the front door, crocheting a lamp-mat when I\nsaw her last,\" said \"Bill.\" \"She's older'n she was, Miss Posie. But\neverything in the house looked jest the same. Your ma asked me to set\ndown. 'Don't touch that willow rocker, William,' says she. 'It ain't\nbeen moved since Posie left; and that's the apron she was hemmin',\nlayin' over the arm of it, jist as she flung it. I'm in hopes,' she\ngoes on, 'that Posie'll finish runnin' out that hem some day.'\" Miss Carrington beckoned peremptorily to a waiter. \"A pint of extra dry,\" she ordered, briefly; \"and give the check to\nGoldstein.\" \"The sun was shinin' in the door,\" went on the chronicler from\nCranberry, \"and your ma was settin' right in it. I asked her if she\nhadn't better move back a little. 'William,' says she, 'when I get\nsot down and lookin' down the road, I can't bear to move. Never a\nday,' says she, 'but what I set here every minute that I can spare\nand watch over them palin's for Posie. She went away down that road\nin the night, for we seen her little shoe tracks in the dust, and\nsomethin' tells me she'll come back that way ag'in when she's weary\nof the world and begins to think about her old mother.' \"When I was comin' away,\" concluded \"Bill,\" \"I pulled this off'n the\nbush by the front steps. I thought maybe I might see you in the city,\nand I knowed you'd like somethin' from the old home.\" He took from his coat pocket a rose--a drooping, yellow, velvet,\nodorous rose, that hung its head in the foul atmosphere of that\ntainted rathskeller like a virgin bowing before the hot breath of the\nlions in a Roman arena. Miss Carrington's penetrating but musical laugh rose above the\norchestra's rendering of \"Bluebells.\"", "words": 314}, {"story": 18, "title": "THE RATHSKELLER AND THE ROSE", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Oh, say!\" she cried, with glee, \"ain't those poky places the limit?\nI just know that two hours at Cranberry Corners would give me the\nhorrors now. Well, I'm awful glad to have seen you, Mr. Summers.\nGuess I'll bustle around to the hotel now and get my beauty sleep.\" She thrust the yellow rose into the bosom of her wonderful, dainty,\nsilken garments, stood up and nodded imperiously at Herr Goldstein. Her three companions and \"Bill Summers\" attended her to her cab. When\nher flounces and streamers were all safely tucked inside she dazzled\nthem with au revoirs from her shining eyes and teeth. \"Come around to the hotel and see me, Bill, before you leave the\ncity,\" she called as the glittering cab rolled away. Highsmith, still in his make-up, went with Herr Goldstein to a caf\u00e9\nbooth. \"Bright idea, eh?\" asked the smiling actor. \"Ought to land 'Sol\nHaytosser' for me, don't you think? The little lady never once\ntumbled.\" \"I didn't hear your conversation,\" said Goldstein, \"but your make-up\nand acting was O. K. Here's to your success. You'd better call on\nMiss Carrington early to-morrow and strike her for the part. I don't\nsee how she can keep from being satisfied with your exhibition of\nability.\" At 11.45 A. M. on the next day Highsmith, handsome, dressed in the\nlatest mode, confident, with a fuchsia in his button-hole, sent up\nhis card to Miss Carrington in her select apartment hotel. He was shown up and received by the actress's French maid. \"I am sorree,\" said Mlle. Hortense, \"but I am to say this to all. It\nis with great regret. Mees Carrington have cancelled all engagements\non the stage and have returned to live in that--how you call that\ntown? Cranberry Cornaire!\" XXI", "words": 298}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Half of this story can be found in the records of the Police\nDepartment; the other half belongs behind the business counter of a\nnewspaper office. One afternoon two weeks after Millionaire Norcross was found in\nhis apartment murdered by a burglar, the murderer, while strolling\nserenely down Broadway ran plump against Detective Barney Woods. \"Is that you, Johnny Kernan?\" asked Woods, who had been near-sighted\nin public for five years. \"No less,\" cried Kernan, heartily. \"If it isn't Barney Woods, late\nand early of old Saint Jo! You'll have to show me! What are you doing\nEast? Do the green-goods circulars get out that far?\" \"I've been in New York some years,\" said Woods. \"I'm on the city\ndetective force.\" \"Well, well!\" said Kernan, breathing smiling joy and patting the\ndetective's arm. \"Come into Muller's,\" said Woods, \"and let's hunt a quiet table. I'd\nlike to talk to you awhile.\" It lacked a few minutes to the hour of four. The tides of trade were\nnot yet loosed, and they found a quiet corner of the caf\u00e9. Kernan,\nwell dressed, slightly swaggering, self-confident, seated himself\nopposite the little detective, with his pale, sandy mustache,\nsquinting eyes and ready-made cheviot suit. \"What business are you in now?\" asked Woods. \"You know you left Saint\nJo a year before I did.\" \"I'm selling shares in a copper mine,\" said Kernan. \"I may establish\nan office here. Well, well! and so old Barney is a New York\ndetective. You always had a turn that way. You were on the police in\nSaint Jo after I left there, weren't you?\" \"Six months,\" said Woods. \"And now there's one more question, Johnny.\nI've followed your record pretty close ever since you did that hotel\njob in Saratoga, and I never knew you to use your gun before. Why did\nyou kill Norcross?\"", "words": 308}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Kernan stared for a few moments with concentrated attention at the\nslice of lemon in his high-ball; and then he looked at the detective\nwith a sudden, crooked, brilliant smile. \"How did you guess it, Barney?\" he asked, admiringly. \"I swear I\nthought the job was as clean and as smooth as a peeled onion. Did I\nleave a string hanging out anywhere?\" Woods laid upon the table a small gold pencil intended for a\nwatch-charm. \"It's the one I gave you the last Christmas we were in Saint Jo. I've\ngot your shaving mug yet. I found this under a corner of the rug in\nNorcross's room. I warn you to be careful what you say. I've got it\nput on to you, Johnny. We were old friends once, but I must do my\nduty. You'll have to go to the chair for Norcross.\" Kernan laughed. \"My luck stays with me,\" said he. \"Who'd have thought old Barney was\non my trail!\" He slipped one hand inside his coat. In an instant\nWoods had a revolver against his side.", "words": 180}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Put it away,\" said Kernan, wrinkling his nose. \"I'm only\ninvestigating. Aha! It takes nine tailors to make a man, but one can\ndo a man up. There's a hole in that vest pocket. I took that pencil\noff my chain and slipped it in there in case of a scrap. Put up your\ngun, Barney, and I'll tell you why I had to shoot Norcross. The old\nfool started down the hall after me, popping at the buttons on the\nback of my coat with a peevish little .22 and I had to stop him.\nThe old lady was a darling. She just lay in bed and saw her $12,000\ndiamond necklace go without a chirp, while she begged like a\npanhandler to have back a little thin gold ring with a garnet worth\nabout $3. I guess she married old Norcross for his money, all right.\nDon't they hang on to the little trinkets from the Man Who Lost Out,\nthough? There were six rings, two brooches and a chatelaine watch.\nFifteen thousand would cover the lot.\" \"I warned you not to talk,\" said Woods. \"Oh, that's all right,\" said Kernan. \"The stuff is in my suit case at\nthe hotel. And now I'll tell you why I'm talking. Because it's safe.\nI'm talking to a man I know. You owe me a thousand dollars, Barney\nWoods, and even if you wanted to arrest me your hand wouldn't make\nthe move.\" \"I haven't forgotten,\" said Woods. \"You counted out twenty fifties\nwithout a word. I'll pay it back some day. That thousand saved me\nand--well, they were piling my furniture out on the sidewalk when I\ngot back to the house.\"", "words": 283}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"And so,\" continued Kernan, \"you being Barney Woods, born as true as\nsteel, and bound to play a white man's game, can't lift a finger to\narrest the man you're indebted to. Oh, I have to study men as well\nas Yale locks and window fastenings in my business. Now, keep quiet\nwhile I ring for the waiter. I've had a thirst for a year or two that\nworries me a little. If I'm ever caught the lucky sleuth will have to\ndivide honors with old boy Booze. But I never drink during business\nhours. After a job I can crook elbows with my old friend Barney with\na clear conscience. What are you taking?\" The waiter came with the little decanters and the siphon and left\nthem alone again. \"You've called the turn,\" said Woods, as he rolled the little gold\npencil about with a thoughtful fore-finger. \"I've got to pass you\nup. I can't lay a hand on you. If I'd a-paid that money back--but I\ndidn't, and that settles it. It's a bad break I'm making, Johnny, but\nI can't dodge it. You helped me once, and it calls for the same.\" \"I knew it,\" said Kernan, raising his glass, with a flushed smile of\nself-appreciation. \"I can judge men. Here's to Barney, for--'he's a\njolly good fellow.'\" \"I don't believe,\" went on Woods quietly, as if he were thinking\naloud, \"that if accounts had been square between you and me, all the\nmoney in all the banks in New York could have bought you out of my\nhands to-night.\" \"I know it couldn't,\" said Kernan. \"That's why I knew I was safe with\nyou.\"", "words": 278}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Most people,\" continued the detective, \"look sideways at my\nbusiness. They don't class it among the fine arts and the\nprofessions. But I've always taken a kind of fool pride in it. And\nhere is where I go 'busted.' I guess I'm a man first and a detective\nafterward. I've got to let you go, and then I've got to resign from\nthe force. I guess I can drive an express wagon. Your thousand\ndollars is further off than ever, Johnny.\" \"Oh, you're welcome to it,\" said Kernan, with a lordly air. \"I'd be\nwilling to call the debt off, but I know you wouldn't have it. It\nwas a lucky day for me when you borrowed it. And now, let's drop the\nsubject. I'm off to the West on a morning train. I know a place out\nthere where I can negotiate the Norcross sparks. Drink up, Barney,\nand forget your troubles. We'll have a jolly time while the police\nare knocking their heads together over the case. I've got one of my\nSahara thirsts on to-night. But I'm in the hands--the unofficial\nhands--of my old friend Barney, and I won't even dream of a cop.\" And then, as Kernan's ready finger kept the button and the waiter\nworking, his weak point--a tremendous vanity and arrogant egotism,\nbegan to show itself. He recounted story after story of his\nsuccessful plunderings, ingenious plots and infamous transgressions\nuntil Woods, with all his familiarity with evil-doers, felt growing\nwithin him a cold abhorrence toward the utterly vicious man who had\nonce been his benefactor. \"I'm disposed of, of course,\" said Woods, at length. \"But I advise\nyou to keep under cover for a spell. The newspapers may take up this\nNorcross affair. There has been an epidemic of burglaries and\nmanslaughter in town this summer.\" The word sent Kernan into a high glow of sullen and vindictive rage.", "words": 316}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"To h----l with the newspapers,\" he growled. \"What do they spell but\nbrag and blow and boodle in box-car letters? Suppose they do take up\na case--what does it amount to? The police are easy enough to fool;\nbut what do the newspapers do? They send a lot of pin-head reporters\naround to the scene; and they make for the nearest saloon and have\nbeer while they take photos of the bartender's oldest daughter in\nevening dress, to print as the fianc\u00e9e of the young man in the tenth\nstory, who thought he heard a noise below on the night of the murder.\nThat's about as near as the newspapers ever come to running down Mr.\nBurglar.\" \"Well, I don't know,\" said Woods, reflecting. \"Some of the papers\nhave done good work in that line. There's the _Morning Mars_, for\ninstance. It warmed up two or three trails, and got the man after the\npolice had let 'em get cold.\" \"I'll show you,\" said Kernan, rising, and expanding his chest. \"I'll\nshow you what I think of newspapers in general, and your _Morning\nMars_ in particular.\" Three feet from their table was the telephone booth. Kernan went\ninside and sat at the instrument, leaving the door open. He found a\nnumber in the book, took down the receiver and made his demand upon\nCentral. Woods sat still, looking at the sneering, cold, vigilant\nface waiting close to the transmitter, and listened to the words that\ncame from the thin, truculent lips curved into a contemptuous smile. \"That the _Morning Mars_? . . . I want to speak to the managing\neditor. . . Why, tell him it's some one who wants to talk to him\nabout the Norcross murder.", "words": 289}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"You the editor? . . . All right. . . I am the man who killed old\nNorcross . . . Wait! Hold the wire; I'm not the usual crank . . . Oh,\nthere isn't the slightest danger. I've just been discussing it with\na detective friend of mine. I killed the old man at 2:30 A. M. two\nweeks ago to-morrow. . . . Have a drink with you? Now, hadn't you\nbetter leave that kind of talk to your funny man? Can't you tell\nwhether a man's guying you or whether you're being offered the\nbiggest scoop your dull dishrag of a paper ever had? . . . Well,\nthat's so; it's a bobtail scoop--but you can hardly expect me to\n'phone in my name and address . . . Why? Oh, because I heard you make\na specialty of solving mysterious crimes that stump the police. . .\nNo, that's not all. I want to tell you that your rotten, lying,\npenny sheet is of no more use in tracking an intelligent murderer or\nhighwayman than a blind poodle would be. . . What? . . . Oh, no, this\nisn't a rival newspaper office; you're getting it straight. I did the\nNorcross job, and I've got the jewels in my suit case at--'the name\nof the hotel could not be learned'--you recognize that phrase, don't\nyou? I thought so. You've used it often enough. Kind of rattles you,\ndoesn't it, to have the mysterious villain call up your great, big,\nall-powerful organ of right and justice and good government and tell\nyou what a helpless old gas-bag you are? . . . Cut that out; you're\nnot that big a fool--no, you don't think I'm a fraud. I can tell it\nby your voice. . . . Now, listen, and I'll give you a pointer that\nwill prove it to you. Of course you've had this murder case worked\nover by your staff of bright young blockheads. Half of the second\nbutton on old Mrs. Norcross's nightgown is broken off. I saw it when\nI took the garnet ring off her finger. I thought it was a ruby. . .\nStop that! it won't work.\"", "words": 370}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Kernan turned to Woods with a diabolic smile. \"I've got him going. He believes me now. He didn't quite cover the\ntransmitter with his hand when he told somebody to call up Central on\nanother 'phone and get our number. I'll give him just one more dig,\nand then we'll make a 'get-away.' \"Hello! . . . Yes. I'm here yet. You didn't think I'd run from such\na little subsidized, turncoat rag of a newspaper, did you? . . . Have\nme inside of forty-eight hours? Say, will you quit being funny? Now,\nyou let grown men alone and attend to your business of hunting up\ndivorce cases and street-car accidents and printing the filth and\nscandal that you make your living by. Good-by, old boy--sorry I\nhaven't time to call on you. I'd feel perfectly safe in your sanctum\nasinorum. Tra-la!\" \"He's as mad as a cat that's lost a mouse,\" said Kernan, hanging up\nthe receiver and coming out. \"And now, Barney, my boy, we'll go to\na show and enjoy ourselves until a reasonable bedtime. Four hours'\nsleep for me, and then the west-bound.\" The two dined in a Broadway restaurant. Kernan was pleased with\nhimself. He spent money like a prince of fiction. And then a weird\nand gorgeous musical comedy engaged their attention. Afterward there\nwas a late supper in a grillroom, with champagne, and Kernan at the\nheight of his complacency. Half-past three in the morning found them in a corner of an all-night\ncaf\u00e9, Kernan still boasting in a vapid and rambling way, Woods\nthinking moodily over the end that had come to his usefulness as an\nupholder of the law. But, as he pondered, his eye brightened with a speculative light. \"I wonder if it's possible,\" he said to himself, \"I won-der if it's\npos-si-ble!\"", "words": 304}, {"story": 19, "title": "THE CLARION CALL", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And then outside the caf\u00e9 the comparative stillness of the early\nmorning was punctured by faint, uncertain cries that seemed mere\nfireflies of sound, some growing louder, some fainter, waxing and\nwaning amid the rumble of milk wagons and infrequent cars. Shrill\ncries they were when near--well-known cries that conveyed many\nmeanings to the ears of those of the slumbering millions of the great\ncity who waked to hear them. Cries that bore upon their significant,\nsmall volume the weight of a world's woe and laughter and delight\nand stress. To some, cowering beneath the protection of a night's\nephemeral cover, they brought news of the hideous, bright day; to\nothers, wrapped in happy sleep, they announced a morning that would\ndawn blacker than sable night. To many of the rich they brought a\nbesom to sweep away what had been theirs while the stars shone; to\nthe poor they brought--another day. All over the city the cries were starting up, keen and sonorous,\nheralding the chances that the slipping of one cogwheel in the\nmachinery of time had made; apportioning to the sleepers while they\nlay at the mercy of fate, the vengeance, profit, grief, reward and\ndoom that the new figure in the calendar had brought them. Shrill and\nyet plaintive were the cries, as if the young voices grieved that so\nmuch evil and so little good was in their irresponsible hands. Thus\nechoed in the streets of the helpless city the transmission of the\nlatest decrees of the gods, the cries of the newsboys--the Clarion\nCall of the Press. Woods flipped a dime to the waiter, and said: \"Get me a _Morning\nMars_.\" When the paper came he glanced at its first page, and then tore a\nleaf out of his memorandum book and began to write on it with the\nlittle gold pencil. \"What's the news?\" yawned Kernan.", "words": 313}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "From near the village of Harmony, at the foot of the Green Mountains,\ncame Miss Medora Martin to New York with her color-box and easel. Miss Medora resembled the rose which the autumnal frosts had spared\nthe longest of all her sister blossoms. In Harmony, when she started\nalone to the wicked city to study art, they said she was a mad,\nreckless, headstrong girl. In New York, when she first took her seat\nat a West Side boardinghouse table, the boarders asked: \"Who is the\nnice-looking old maid?\"", "words": 89}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Medora took heart, a cheap hall bedroom and two art lessons a week\nfrom Professor Angelini, a retired barber who had studied his\nprofession in a Harlem dancing academy. There was no one to set her\nright, for here in the big city they do it unto all of us. How many\nof us are badly shaved daily and taught the two-step imperfectly by\nex-pupils of Bastien Le Page and G\u00e9r\u00f4me? The most pathetic sight in\nNew York--except the manners of the rush-hour crowds--is the dreary\nmarch of the hopeless army of Mediocrity. Here Art is no benignant\ngoddess, but a Circe who turns her wooers into mewing Toms and\nTabbies who linger about the doorsteps of her abode, unmindful of\nthe flying brickbats and boot-jacks of the critics. Some of us creep\nback to our native villages to the skim-milk of \"I told you so\"; but\nmost of us prefer to remain in the cold courtyard of our mistress's\ntemple, snatching the scraps that fall from her divine table d'h\u00f4te.\nBut some of us grow weary at last of the fruitless service. And then\nthere are two fates open to us. We can get a job driving a grocer's\nwagon, or we can get swallowed up in the Vortex of Bohemia. The\nlatter sounds good; but the former really pans out better. For, when\nthe grocer pays us off we can rent a dress suit and--the capitalized\nsystem of humor describes it best--Get Bohemia On the Run. Miss Medora chose the Vortex and thereby furnishes us with our little\nstory.", "words": 261}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Professor Angelini praised her sketches excessively. Once when\nshe had made a neat study of a horse-chestnut tree in the park he\ndeclared she would become a second Rosa Bonheur. Again--a great\nartist has his moods--he would say cruel and cutting things. For\nexample, Medora had spent an afternoon patiently sketching the statue\nand the architecture at Columbus Circle. Tossing it aside with a\nsneer, the professor informed her that Giotto had once drawn a\nperfect circle with one sweep of his hand. One day it rained, the weekly remittance from Harmony was overdue,\nMedora had a headache, the professor had tried to borrow two dollars\nfrom her, her art dealer had sent back all her water-colors unsold,\nand--Mr. Binkley asked her out to dinner. Mr. Binkley was the gay boy of the boarding-house. He was forty-nine,\nand owned a fishstall in a downtown market. But after six o'clock he\nwore an evening suit and whooped things up connected with the beaux\narts. The young men said he was an \"Indian.\" He was supposed to be\nan accomplished habitu\u00e9 of the inner circles of Bohemia. It was no\nsecret that he had once loaned $10 to a young man who had had a\ndrawing printed in _Puck_. Often has one thus obtained his entr\u00e9e\ninto the charmed circle, while the other obtained both his entr\u00e9e and\nroast. The other boarders enviously regarded Medora as she left at Mr.\nBinkley's side at nine o'clock. She was as sweet as a cluster of\ndried autumn grasses in her pale blue--oh--er--that very thin\nstuff--in her pale blue Comstockized silk waist and box-pleated voile\nskirt, with a soft pink glow on her thin cheeks and the tiniest bit\nof rouge powder on her face, with her handkerchief and room key in\nher brown walrus, pebble-grain hand-bag.", "words": 302}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And Mr. Binkley looked imposing and dashing with his red face and\ngray mustache, and his tight dress coat, that made the back of his\nneck roll up just like a successful novelist's. They drove in a cab to the Caf\u00e9 Terence, just off the most glittering\npart of Broadway, which, as every one knows, is one of the most\npopular and widely patronized, jealously exclusive Bohemian resorts\nin the city. Down between the rows of little tables tripped Medora, of the Green\nMountains, after her escort. Thrice in a lifetime may woman walk upon\nclouds--once when she trippeth to the altar, once when she first\nenters Bohemian halls, the last when she marches back across her\nfirst garden with the dead hen of her neighbor in her hand. There was a table set, with three or four about it. A waiter buzzed\naround it like a bee, and silver and glass shone upon it. And,\npreliminary to the meal, as the prehistoric granite strata heralded\nthe protozoa, the bread of Gaul, compounded after the formula of\nthe recipe for the eternal hills, was there set forth to the hand\nand tooth of a long-suffering city, while the gods lay beside their\nnectar and home-made biscuits and smiled, and the dentists leaped for\njoy in their gold-leafy dens. The eye of Binkley fixed a young man at his table with the Bohemian\ngleam, which is a compound of the look of the Basilisk, the shine of\na bubble of W\u00fcrzburger, the inspiration of genius and the pleading of\na panhandler. The young man sprang to his feet. \"Hello, Bink, old boy!\" he shouted.\n\"Don't tell me you were going to pass our table. Join us--unless\nyou've another crowd on hand.\"", "words": 290}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Don't mind, old chap,\" said Binkley, of the fish-stall. \"You know\nhow I like to butt up against the fine arts. Mr. Vandyke--Mr.\nMadder--er--Miss Martin, one of the elect also in art--er--\" The introduction went around. There were also Miss Elise and Miss\n'Toinette. Perhaps they were models, for they chattered of the St.\nRegis decorations and Henry James--and they did it not badly. Medora sat in transport. Music--wild, intoxicating music made by\ntroubadours direct from a rear basement room in Elysium--set her\nthoughts to dancing. Here was a world never before penetrated by her\nwarmest imagination or any of the lines controlled by Harriman. With\nthe Green Mountains' external calm upon her she sat, her soul flaming\nin her with the fire of Andalusia. The tables were filled with\nBohemia. The room was full of the fragrance of flowers--both mille\nand cauli. Questions and corks popped; laughter and silver rang;\nchampagne flashed in the pail, wit flashed in the pan. Vandyke ruffled his long, black locks, disarranged his careless tie\nand leaned over to Madder. \"Say, Maddy,\" he whispered, feelingly, \"sometimes I'm tempted to pay\nthis Philistine his ten dollars and get rid of him.\" Madder ruffled his long, sandy locks and disarranged his careless\ntie. \"Don't think of it, Vandy,\" he replied. \"We are short, and Art is\nlong.\" Medora ate strange viands and drank elderberry wine that they poured\nin her glass. It was just the color of that in the Vermont home. The\nwaiter poured something in another glass that seemed to be boiling,\nbut when she tasted it it was not hot. She had never felt so\nlight-hearted before. She thought lovingly of the Green Mountain farm\nand its fauna. She leaned, smiling, to Miss Elise. \"If I were at home,\" she said, beamingly, \"I could show you the\ncutest little calf!\"", "words": 307}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Nothing for you in the White Lane,\" said Miss Elise. \"Why don't you\npad?\" The orchestra played a wailing waltz that Medora had learned from\nthe hand-organs. She followed the air with nodding head in a sweet\nsoprano hum. Madder looked across the table at her, and wondered in\nwhat strange waters Binkley had caught her in his seine. She smiled\nat him, and they raised glasses and drank of the wine that boiled\nwhen it was cold. Binkley had abandoned art and was prating\nof the unusual spring catch of shad. Miss Elise arranged the\npalette-and-maul-stick tie pin of Mr. Vandyke. A Philistine at some\ndistant table was maundering volubly either about Jerome or G\u00e9r\u00f4me.\nA famous actress was discoursing excitably about monogrammed hosiery.\nA hose clerk from a department store was loudly proclaiming his\nopinions of the drama. A writer was abusing Dickens. A magazine\neditor and a photographer were drinking a dry brand at a reserved\ntable. A 36-25-42 young lady was saying to an eminent sculptor:\n\"Fudge for your Prax Italys! Bring one of your Venus Anno Dominis\ndown to Cohen's and see how quick she'd be turned down for a cloak\nmodel. Back to the quarries with your Greeks and Dagos!\" Thus went Bohemia. At eleven Mr. Binkley took Medora to the boarding-house and left her,\nwith a society bow, at the foot of the hall stairs. She went up to\nher room and lit the gas. And then, as suddenly as the dreadful genie arose in vapor from the\ncopper vase of the fisherman, arose in that room the formidable shape\nof the New England Conscience. The terrible thing that Medora had\ndone was revealed to her in its full enormity. She had sat in the\npresence of the ungodly and looked upon the wine both when it was red\nand effervescent. At midnight she wrote this letter: \"MR. BERIAH HOSKINS, Harmony, Vermont.", "words": 319}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Dear Sir: Henceforth, consider me as dead to you forever.\n I have loved you too well to blight your career by bringing\n into it my guilty and sin-stained life. I have succumbed\n to the insidious wiles of this wicked world and have been\n drawn into the vortex of Bohemia. There is scarcely any\n depth of glittering iniquity that I have not sounded. It is\n hopeless to combat my decision. There is no rising from the\n depths to which I have sunk. Endeavor to forget me. I am\n lost forever in the fair but brutal maze of awful Bohemia.\n Farewell. \"ONCE YOUR MEDORA.\" On the next day Medora formed her resolutions. Beelzebub, flung from\nheaven, was no more cast down. Between her and the apple blossoms of\nHarmony there was a fixed gulf. Flaming cherubim warded her from the\ngates of her lost paradise. In one evening, by the aid of Binkley and\nMumm, Bohemia had gathered her into its awful midst. There remained to her but one thing--a life of brilliant, but\nirremediable error. Vermont was a shrine that she never would dare\nto approach again. But she would not sink--there were great and\ncompelling ones in history upon whom she would model her meteoric\ncareer--Camille, Lola Montez, Royal Mary, Zaza--such a name as one\nof these would that of Medora Martin be to future generations. For two days Medora kept her room. On the third she opened a magazine\nat the portrait of the King of Belgium, and laughed sardonically. If\nthat far-famed breaker of women's hearts should cross her path, he\nwould have to bow before her cold and imperious beauty. She would not\nspare the old or the young. All America--all Europe should do homage\nto her sinister, but compelling charm.", "words": 294}, {"story": 20, "title": "EXTRADITED FROM BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "As yet she could not bear to think of the life she had once\ndesired--a peaceful one in the shadow of the Green Mountains with\nBeriah at her side, and orders for expensive oil paintings coming in\nby each mail from New York. Her one fatal misstep had shattered that\ndream. On the fourth day Medora powdered her face and rouged her lips. Once\nshe had seen Carter in \"Zaza.\" She stood before the mirror in a\nreckless attitude and cried: \"_Zut! zut!_\" She rhymed it with \"nut,\"\nbut with the lawless word Harmony seemed to pass away forever. The\nVortex had her. She belonged to Bohemia for evermore. And never would\nBeriah-- The door opened and Beriah walked in. \"'Dory,\" said he, \"what's all that chalk and pink stuff on your face,\nhoney?\" Medora extended an arm. \"Too late,\" she said, solemnly. \"The die is cast. I belong in another\nworld. Curse me if you will--it is your right. Go, and leave me in\nthe path I have chosen. Bid them all at home never to mention my name\nagain. And sometimes, Beriah, pray for me when I am revelling in the\ngaudy, but hollow, pleasures of Bohemia.\" \"Get a towel, 'Dory,\" said Beriah, \"and wipe that paint off your\nface. I came as soon as I got your letter. Them pictures of yours\nain't amounting to anything. I've got tickets for both of us back on\nthe evening train. Hurry and get your things in your trunk.\" \"Fate was too strong for me, Beriah. Go while I am strong to bear\nit.\" \"How do you fold this easel, 'Dory?--now begin to pack, so we have\ntime to eat before train time. The maples is all out in full-grown\nleaves, 'Dory--you just ought to see 'em! \"Not this early, Beriah? \"You ought to see 'em, 'Dory; they're like an ocean of green in the\nmorning sunlight.\" \"Oh, Beriah!\"", "words": 319}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "George Washington, with his right arm upraised, sits his iron horse\nat the lower corner of Union Square, forever signaling the Broadway\ncars to stop as they round the curve into Fourteenth Street. But the\ncars buzz on, heedless, as they do at the beck of a private citizen,\nand the great General must feel, unless his nerves are iron, that\nrapid transit gloria mundi. Should the General raise his left hand as he has raised his right\nit would point to a quarter of the city that forms a haven for the\noppressed and suppressed of foreign lands. In the cause of national\nor personal freedom they have found a refuge here, and the patriot\nwho made it for them sits his steed, overlooking their district,\nwhile he listens through his left ear to vaudeville that caricatures\nthe posterity of his prot\u00e9g\u00e9s. Italy, Poland, the former Spanish\npossessions and the polyglot tribes of Austria-Hungary have spilled\nhere a thick lather of their effervescent sons. In the eccentric\ncaf\u00e9s and lodging-houses of the vicinity they hover over their native\nwines and political secrets. The colony changes with much frequency.\nFaces disappear from the haunts to be replaced by others. Whither do\nthese uneasy birds flit? For half of the answer observe carefully the\nsuave foreign air and foreign courtesy of the next waiter who serves\nyour table d'h\u00f4te. For the other half, perhaps if the barber shops\nhad tongues (and who will dispute it?) they could tell their share.", "words": 249}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Titles are as plentiful as finger rings among these transitory\nexiles. For lack of proper exploitation a stock of title goods large\nenough to supply the trade of upper Fifth Avenue is here condemned\nto a mere pushcart traffic. The new-world landlords who entertain\nthese offshoots of nobility are not dazzled by coronets and crests.\nThey have doughnuts to sell instead of daughters. With them it is a\nserious matter of trading in flour and sugar instead of pearl powder\nand bonbons. These assertions are deemed fitting as an introduction to the tale,\nwhich is of plebeians and contains no one with even the ghost of a\ntitle. Katy Dempsey's mother kept a furnished-room house in this oasis of\nthe aliens. The business was not profitable. If the two scraped\ntogether enough to meet the landlord's agent on rent day and\nnegotiate for the ingredients of a daily Irish stew they called it\nsuccess. Often the stew lacked both meat and potatoes. Sometimes it\nbecame as bad as consomm\u00e9 with music. In this mouldy old house Katy waxed plump and pert and wholesome and\nas beautiful and freckled as a tiger lily. She was the good fairy who\nwas guilty of placing the damp clean towels and cracked pitchers of\nfreshly laundered Croton in the lodgers' rooms. You are informed (by virtue of the privileges of astronomical\ndiscovery) that the star lodger's name was Mr. Brunelli. His wearing\na yellow tie and paying his rent promptly distinguished him from the\nother lodgers. His raiment was splendid, his complexion olive, his\nmustache fierce, his manners a prince's, his rings and pins as\nmagnificent as those of a traveling dentist.", "words": 278}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He had breakfast served in his room, and he ate it in a red dressing\ngown with green tassels. He left the house at noon and returned\nat midnight. Those were mysterious hours, but there was nothing\nmysterious about Mrs. Dempsey's lodgers except the things that were\nnot mysterious. One of Mr. Kipling's poems is addressed to \"Ye who\nhold the unwritten clue to all save all unwritten things.\" The same\n\"readers\" are invited to tackle the foregoing assertion. Mr. Brunelli, being impressionable and a Latin, fell to conjugating\nthe verb \"amare,\" with Katy in the objective case, though not because\nof antipathy. She talked it over with her mother. \"Sure, I like him,\" said Katy. \"He's more politeness than twinty\ncandidates for Alderman, and lie makes me feel like a queen whin he\nwalks at me side. But what is he, I dinno? I've me suspicions. The\nmarnin'll coom whin he'll throt out the picture av his baronial halls\nand ax to have the week's rint hung up in the ice chist along wid all\nthe rist of 'em.\" \"'Tis thrue,\" admitted Mrs. Dempsey, \"that he seems to be a sort iv a\nDago, and too coolchured in his spache for a rale gentleman. But ye\nmay be misjudgin' him. Ye should niver suspect any wan of bein' of\nnoble descint that pays cash and pathronizes the laundry rig'lar.\" \"He's the same thricks of spakin' and blarneyin' wid his hands,\"\nsighed Katy, \"as the Frinch nobleman at Mrs. Toole's that ran away\nwid Mr. Toole's Sunday pants and left the photograph of the Bastile,\nhis grandfather's chat-taw, as security for tin weeks' rint.\"", "words": 274}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Brunelli continued his calorific wooing. Katy continued to\nhesitate. One day he asked her out to dine and she felt that a\nd\u00e9nouement was in the air. While they are on their way, with Katy in\nher best muslin, you must take as an entr'acte a brief peep at New\nYork's Bohemia. 'Tonio's restaurant is in Bohemia. The very location of it is secret.\nIf you wish to know where it is ask the first person you meet. He\nwill tell you in a whisper. 'Tonio discountenances custom; he keeps\nhis house-front black and forbidding; he gives you a pretty bad\ndinner; he locks his door at the dining hour; but he knows spaghetti\nas the boarding-house knows cold veal; and--he has deposited many\ndollars in a certain Banco di-- something with many gold vowels in\nthe name on its windows. To this restaurant Mr. Brunelli conducted Katy. The house was dark\nand the shades were lowered; but Mr. Brunelli touched an electric\nbutton by the basement door, and they were admitted. Along a long, dark, narrow hallway they went and then through a\nshining and spotless kitchen that opened directly upon a back yard. The walls of houses hemmed three sides of the yard; a high, board\nfence, surrounded by cats, the other. A wash of clothes was suspended\nhigh upon a line stretched from diagonal corners. Those were property\nclothes, and were never taken in by 'Tonio. They were there that wits\nwith defective pronunciation might make puns in connection with the\nragout.", "words": 256}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A dozen and a half little tables set upon the bare ground were\ncrowded with Bohemia-hunters, who flocked there because 'Tonio\npretended not to want them and pretended to give them a good dinner.\nThere was a sprinkling of real Bohemians present who came for a\nchange because they were tired of the real Bohemia, and a smart\nshower of the men who originate the bright sayings of Congressmen\nand the little nephew of the well-known general passenger agent of\nthe Evansville and Terre Haute Railroad Company. Here is a bon mot that was manufactured at 'Tonio's: \"A dinner at 'Tonio's,\" said a Bohemian, \"always amounts to twice the\nprice that is asked for it.\" Let us assume that an accommodating voice inquires: \"How so?\" \"The dinner costs you 40 cents; you give 10 cents to the waiter, and\nit makes you feel like 30 cents.\" Most of the diners were confirmed table d'h\u00f4ters--gastronomic\nadventurers, forever seeking the El Dorado of a good claret, and\nconsistently coming to grief in California. Mr. Brunelli escorted Katy to a little table embowered with shrubbery\nin tubs, and asked her to excuse him for a while. Katy sat, enchanted by a scene so brilliant to her. The grand\nladies, in splendid dresses and plumes and sparkling rings; the fine\ngentlemen who laughed so loudly, the cries of \"Garsong!\" and \"We,\nmonseer,\" and \"Hello, Mame!\" that distinguish Bohemia; the lively\nchatter, the cigarette smoke, the interchange of bright smiles and\neye-glances--all this display and magnificence overpowered the\ndaughter of Mrs. Dempsey and held her motionless. Mr. Brunelli stepped into the yard and seemed to spread his smile\nand bow over the entire company. And everywhere there was a great\nclapping of hands and a few cries of \"Bravo!\" and \"'Tonio! 'Tonio!\"\nwhatever those words might mean. Ladies waved their napkins at him,\ngentlemen almost twisted their necks off, trying to catch his nod.", "words": 319}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When the ovation was concluded Mr. Brunelli, with a final bow,\nstepped nimbly into the kitchen and flung off his coat and waistcoat. Flaherty, the nimblest \"garsong\" among the waiters, had been assigned\nto the special service of Katy. She was a little faint from hunger,\nfor the Irish stew on the Dempsey table had been particularly weak\nthat day. Delicious odors from unknown dishes tantalized her. And\nFlaherty began to bring to her table course after course of ambrosial\nfood that the gods might have pronounced excellent. But even in the midst of her Lucullian repast Katy laid down her\nknife and fork. Her heart sank as lead, and a tear fell upon her\nfilet mignon. Her haunting suspicions of the star lodger arose\nagain, fourfold. Thus courted and admired and smiled upon by that\nfashionable and gracious assembly, what else could Mr. Brunelli be\nbut one of those dazzling titled patricians, glorious of name but shy\nof rent money, concerning whom experience had made her wise? With a\nsense of his ineligibility growing within her there was mingled a\ntorturing conviction that his personality was becoming more pleasing\nto her day by day. And why had he left her to dine alone? But here he was coming again, now coatless, his snowy shirt-sleeves\nrolled high above his Jeffriesonian elbows, a white yachting cap\nperched upon his jetty curls. \"'Tonio! 'Tonio!\" shouted many, and \"The spaghetti! The spaghetti!\"\nshouted the rest. Never at 'Tonio's did a waiter dare to serve a dish of spaghetti\nuntil 'Tonio came to test it, to prove the sauce and add the needful\ndash of seasoning that gave it perfection. From table to table moved 'Tonio, like a prince in his palace,\ngreeting his guests. White, jewelled hands signalled him from every\nside.", "words": 299}, {"story": 21, "title": "A PHILISTINE IN BOHEMIA", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A glass of wine with this one and that, smiles for all, a jest and\nrepartee for any that might challenge--truly few princes could be so\nagreeable a host! And what artist could ask for further appreciation\nof his handiwork? Katy did not know that the proudest consummation of\na New Yorker's ambition is to shake hands with a spaghetti chef or to\nreceive a nod from a Broadway head-waiter. At last the company thinned, leaving but a few couples and quartettes\nlingering over new wine and old stories. And then came Mr. Brunelli\nto Katy's secluded table, and drew a chair close to hers. Katy smiled at him dreamily. She was eating the last spoonful of a\nraspberry roll with Burgundy sauce. \"You have seen!\" said Mr. Brunelli, laying one hand upon his collar\nbone. \"I am Antonio Brunelli! Yes; I am the great 'Tonio! You have\nnot suspect that! I loave you, Katy, and you shall marry with me. Is\nit not so? Call me 'Antonio,' and say that you will be mine.\" Katy's head drooped to the shoulder that was now freed from all\nsuspicion of having received the knightly accolade. \"Oh, Andy,\" she sighed, \"this is great! Sure, I'll marry wid ye. But\nwhy didn't ye tell me ye was the cook? I was near turnin' ye down for\nbein' one of thim foreign counts!\" XXIV", "words": 230}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Vuyning left his club, cursing it softly, without any particular\nanger. From ten in the morning until eleven it had bored him\nimmeasurably. Kirk with his fish story, Brooks with his Porto Rico\ncigars, old Morrison with his anecdote about the widow, Hepburn with\nhis invariable luck at billiards--all these afflictions had been\nrepeated without change of bill or scenery. Besides these morning\nevils Miss Allison had refused him again on the night before. But\nthat was a chronic trouble. Five times she had laughed at his offer\nto make her Mrs. Vuyning. He intended to ask her again the next\nWednesday evening. Vuyning walked along Forty-fourth Street to Broadway, and then\ndrifted down the great sluice that washes out the dust of the\ngold-mines of Gotham. He wore a morning suit of light gray, low, dull\nkid shoes, a plain, finely woven straw hat, and his visible linen was\nthe most delicate possible shade of heliotrope. His necktie was the\nblue-gray of a November sky, and its knot was plainly the outcome of\na lordly carelessness combined with an accurate conception of the\nmost recent dictum of fashion. Now, to write of a man's haberdashery is a worse thing than to write\na historical novel \"around\" Paul Jones, or to pen a testimonial to a\nhay-fever cure. Therefore, let it be known that the description of Vuyning's apparel\nis germane to the movements of the story, and not to make room for\nthe new fall stock of goods.", "words": 249}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Even Broadway that morning was a discord in Vuyning's ears; and in\nhis eyes it paralleled for a few dreamy, dreary minutes a certain\nhowling, scorching, seething, malodorous slice of street that he\nremembered in Morocco. He saw the struggling mass of dogs, beggars,\nfakirs, slave-drivers and veiled women in carts without horses, the\nsun blazing brightly among the bazaars, the piles of rubbish from\nruined temples in the street--and then a lady, passing, jabbed the\nferrule of a parasol in his side and brought him back to Broadway. Five minutes of his stroll brought him to a certain corner, where a\nnumber of silent, pale-faced men are accustomed to stand, immovably,\nfor hours, busy with the file blades of their penknives, with their\nhat brims on a level with their eyelids. Wall Street speculators,\ndriving home in their carriages, love to point out these men to their\nvisiting friends and tell them of this rather famous lounging-place\nof the \"crooks.\" On Wall Street the speculators never use the file\nblades of their knives. Vuyning was delighted when one of this company stepped forth and\naddressed him as he was passing. He was hungry for something out of\nthe ordinary, and to be accosted by this smooth-faced, keen-eyed,\nlow-voiced, athletic member of the under world, with his grim,\nyet pleasant smile, had all the taste of an adventure to the\nconvention-weary Vuyning. \"Excuse me, friend,\" said he. \"Could I have a few minutes' talk with\nyou--on the level?\" \"Certainly,\" said Vuyning, with a smile. \"But, suppose we step aside\nto a quieter place. There is a divan--a caf\u00e9 over here that will do.\nSchrumm will give us a private corner.\" Schrumm established them under a growing palm, with two seidls\nbetween them. Vuyning made a pleasant reference to meteorological\nconditions, thus forming a hinge upon which might be swung the door\nleading from the thought repository of the other.", "words": 319}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"In the first place,\" said his companion, with the air of one who\npresents his credentials, \"I want you to understand that I am a\ncrook. Out West I am known as Rowdy the Dude. Pickpocket, supper\nman, second-story man, yeggman, boxman, all-round burglar, cardsharp\nand slickest con man west of the Twenty-third Street ferry\nlanding--that's my history. That's to show I'm on the square--with\nyou. My name's Emerson.\" \"Confound old Kirk with his fish stories,\" said Vuyning to himself,\nwith silent glee as he went through his pockets for a card. \"It's\npronounced 'Vining,'\" he said, as he tossed it over to the other.\n\"And I'll be as frank with you. I'm just a kind of a loafer,\nI guess, living on my daddy's money. At the club they call me\n'Left-at-the-Post.' I never did a day's work in my life; and I\nhaven't the heart to run over a chicken when I'm motoring. It's a\npretty shabby record, altogether.\" \"There's one thing you can do,\" said Emerson, admiringly; \"you can\ncarry duds. I've watched you several times pass on Broadway. You look\nthe best dressed man I've seen. And I'll bet you a gold mine I've got\n$50 worth more gent's furnishings on my frame than you have. That's\nwhat I wanted to see you about. I can't do the trick. Take a look at\nme. What's wrong?\" \"Stand up,\" said Vuyning. Emerson arose, and slowly revolved. \"You've been 'outfitted,'\" declared the clubman. \"Some Broadway\nwindow-dresser has misused you. That's an expensive suit, though,\nEmerson.\" \"A hundred dollars,\" said Emerson.", "words": 262}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Twenty too much,\" said Vuyning. \"Six months old in cut, one inch too\nlong, and half an inch too much lapel. Your hat is plainly dated one\nyear ago, although there's only a sixteenth of an inch lacking in\nthe brim to tell the story. That English poke in your collar is too\nshort by the distance between Troy and London. A plain gold link\ncuff-button would take all the shine out of those pearl ones with\ndiamond settings. Those tan shoes would be exactly the articles to\nwork into the heart of a Brooklyn school-ma'am on a two weeks' visit\nto Lake Ronkonkoma. I think I caught a glimpse of a blue silk sock\nembroidered with russet lilies of the valley when you--improperly--\ndrew up your trousers as you sat down. There are always plain ones to\nbe had in the stores. Have I hurt your feelings, Emerson?\" \"Double the ante!\" cried the criticised one, greedily. \"Give me more\nof it. There's a way to tote the haberdashery, and I want to get wise\nto it. Say, you're the right kind of a swell. Anything else to the\nqueer about me?\" \"Your tie,\" said Vuyning, \"is tied with absolute precision and\ncorrectness.\" \"Thanks,\" gratefully--\"I spent over half an hour at it before I--\" \"Thereby,\" interrupted Vuyning, \"completing your resemblance to a\ndummy in a Broadway store window.\" \"Yours truly,\" said Emerson, sitting down again. \"It's bully of you\nto put me wise. I knew there was something wrong, but I couldn't\njust put my finger on it. I guess it comes by nature to know how to\nwear clothes.\" \"Oh, I suppose,\" said Vuyning, with a laugh, \"that my ancestors\npicked up the knack while they were peddling clothes from house to\nhouse a couple of hundred years ago. I'm told they did that.\"", "words": 305}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"And mine,\" said Emerson, cheerfully, \"were making their visits at\nnight, I guess, and didn't have a chance to catch on to the correct\nstyles.\" \"I tell you what,\" said Vuyning, whose ennui had taken wings, \"I'll\ntake you to my tailor. He'll eliminate the mark of the beast from\nyour exterior. That is, if you care to go any further in the way of\nexpense.\" \"Play 'em to the ceiling,\" said Emerson, with a boyish smile of joy.\n\"I've got a roll as big around as a barrel of black-eyed peas and as\nloose as the wrapper of a two-for-fiver. I don't mind telling you\nthat I was not touring among the Antipodes when the burglar-proof\nsafe of the Farmers' National Bank of Butterville, Ia., flew open\nsome moonless nights ago to the tune of $16,000.\" \"Aren't you afraid,\" asked Vuyning, \"that I'll call a cop and hand\nyou over?\" \"You tell me,\" said Emerson, coolly, \"why I didn't keep them.\" He laid Vuyning's pocketbook and watch--the Vuyning 100-year-old\nfamily watch--on the table. \"Man,\" said Vuyning, revelling, \"did you ever hear the tale Kirk\ntells about the six-pound trout and the old fisherman?\" \"Seems not,\" said Emerson, politely. \"I'd like to.\" \"But you won't,\" said Vuyning. \"I've heard it scores of times. That's\nwhy I won't tell you. I was just thinking how much better this is\nthan a club. Now, shall we go to my tailor?\" \"Boys, and elderly gents,\" said Vuyning, five days later at his club,\nstanding up against the window where his coterie was gathered, and\nkeeping out the breeze, \"a friend of mine from the West will dine at\nour table this evening.\" \"Will he ask if we have heard the latest from Denver?\" said a member,\nsquirming in his chair. \"Will he mention the new twenty-three-story Masonic Temple, in\nQuincy, Ill.?\" inquired another, dropping his nose-glasses.", "words": 313}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Will he spring one of those Western Mississippi River catfish\nstories, in which they use yearling calves for bait?\" demanded Kirk,\nfiercely. \"Be comforted,\" said Vuyning. \"He has none of the little vices. He is\na burglar and safe-blower, and a pal of mine.\" \"Oh, Mary Ann!\" said they. \"Must you always adorn every statement\nwith your alleged humor?\" It came to pass that at eight in the evening a calm, smooth,\nbrilliant, affable man sat at Vuyning's right hand during dinner.\nAnd when the ones who pass their lives in city streets spoke of\nskyscrapers or of the little Czar on his far, frozen throne, or\nof insignificant fish from inconsequential streams, this big,\ndeep-chested man, faultlessly clothed, and eyed like an Emperor,\ndisposed of their Lilliputian chatter with a wink of his eyelash. And then he painted for them with hard, broad strokes a marvellous\nlingual panorama of the West. He stacked snow-topped mountains on the\ntable, freezing the hot dishes of the waiting diners. With a wave of\nhis hand he swept the clubhouse into a pine-crowned gorge, turning\nthe waiters into a grim posse, and each listener into a blood-stained\nfugitive, climbing with torn fingers upon the ensanguined rocks. He\ntouched the table and spake, and the five panted as they gazed on\nbarren lava beds, and each man took his tongue between his teeth and\nfelt his mouth bake at the tale of a land empty of water and food. As\nsimply as Homer sang, while he dug a tine of his fork leisurely into\nthe tablecloth, he opened a new world to their view, as does one who\ntells a child of the Looking-Glass Country.", "words": 281}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "As one of his listeners might have spoken of tea too strong at a\nMadison Square \"afternoon,\" so he depicted the ravages of \"redeye\"\nin a border town when the caballeros of the lariat and \"forty-five\"\nreduced ennui to a minimum. And then, with a sweep of his white, unringed hands, he dismissed\nMelpomene, and forthwith Diana and Amaryllis footed it before the\nmind's eyes of the clubmen. The savannas of the continent spread before them. The wind, humming\nthrough a hundred leagues of sage brush and mesquite, closed their\nears to the city's staccato noises. He told them of camps, of ranches\nmarooned in a sea of fragrant prairie blossoms, of gallops in the\nstilly night that Apollo would have forsaken his daytime steeds to\nenjoy; he read them the great, rough epic of the cattle and the\nhills that have not been spoiled by the hand of man, the mason. His\nwords were a telescope to the city men, whose eyes had looked upon\nYoungstown, O., and whose tongues had called it \"West.\" In fact, Emerson had them \"going.\" The next morning at ten he met Vuyning, by appointment, at a\nForty-second Street caf\u00e9. Emerson was to leave for the West that day. He wore a suit of dark\ncheviot that looked to have been draped upon him by an ancient\nGrecian tailor who was a few thousand years ahead of the styles. \"Mr. Vuyning,\" said he, with the clear, ingenuous smile of the\nsuccessful \"crook,\" \"it's up to me to go the limit for you any time I\ncan do so. You're the real thing; and if I can ever return the favor,\nyou bet your life I'll do it.\" \"What was that cow-puncher's name?\" asked Vuyning, \"who used to catch\na mustang by the nose and mane, and throw him till he put the bridle\non?\" \"Bates,\" said Emerson.", "words": 313}, {"story": 22, "title": "FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Thanks,\" said Vuyning. \"I thought it was Yates. Oh, about that\ntoggery business--I'd forgotten that.\" \"I've been looking for some guy to put me on the right track for\nyears,\" said Emerson. \"You're the goods, duty free, and half-way to\nthe warehouse in a red wagon.\" \"Bacon, toasted on a green willow switch over red coals, ought to put\nbroiled lobsters out of business,\" said Vuyning. \"And you say a horse\nat the end of a thirty-foot rope can't pull a ten-inch stake out of\nwet prairie? Well, good-bye, old man, if you must be off.\" At one o'clock Vuyning had luncheon with Miss Allison by previous\narrangement. For thirty minutes he babbled to her, unaccountably, of ranches,\nhorses, ca\u00f1ons, cyclones, round-ups, Rocky Mountains and beans and\nbacon. She looked at him with wondering and half-terrified eyes. \"I was going to propose again to-day,\" said Vuyning, cheerily, \"but\nI won't. I've worried you often enough. You know dad has a ranch in\nColorado. What's the good of staying here? Jumping jonquils! but it's\ngreat out there. I'm going to start next Tuesday.\" \"No, you won't,\" said Miss Allison. \"What?\" said Vuyning. \"Not alone,\" said Miss Allison, dropping a tear upon her salad. \"What\ndo you think?\" \"Betty!\" exclaimed Vuyning, \"what do you mean? \"I'll go too,\" said Miss Allison, forcibly. Vuyning filled her glass\nwith Apollinaris. \"Here's to Rowdy the Dude!\" he gave--a toast mysterious. \"Don't know him,\" said Miss Allison; \"but if he's your friend,\nJimmy--here goes!\" XXV", "words": 249}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Miss Lynnette D'Armande turned her back on Broadway. This was but tit\nfor tat, because Broadway had often done the same thing to Miss\nD'Armande. Still, the \"tats\" seemed to have it, for the ex-leading\nlady of the \"Reaping the Whirlwind\" company had everything to ask of\nBroadway, while there was no vice-vers\u00e2. So Miss Lynnette D'Armande turned the back of her chair to her window\nthat overlooked Broadway, and sat down to stitch in time the\nlisle-thread heel of a black silk stocking. The tumult and glitter of\nthe roaring Broadway beneath her window had no charm for her; what\nshe greatly desired was the stifling air of a dressing-room on that\nfairyland street and the roar of an audience gathered in that\ncapricious quarter. In the meantime, those stockings must not be\nneglected. Silk does wear out so, but--after all, isn't it just the\nonly goods there is? The Hotel Thalia looks on Broadway as Marathon looks on the sea. It\nstands like a gloomy cliff above the whirlpool where the tides of two\ngreat thoroughfares clash. Here the player-bands gather at the end of\ntheir wanderings, to loosen the buskin and dust the sock. Thick in\nthe streets around it are booking-offices, theatres, agents, schools,\nand the lobster-palaces to which those thorny paths lead. Wandering through the eccentric halls of the dim and fusty Thalia,\nyou seem to have found yourself in some great ark or caravan about to\nsail, or fly, or roll away on wheels. About the house lingers a sense\nof unrest, of expectation, of transientness, even of anxiety and\napprehension. The halls are a labyrinth. Without a guide, you wander\nlike a lost soul in a Sam Loyd puzzle.", "words": 286}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Turning any corner, a dressing-sack or a _cul-de-sac_ may bring you\nup short. You meet alarming tragedians stalking in bath-robes in\nsearch of rumored bathrooms. From hundreds of rooms come the buzz\nof talk, scraps of new and old songs, and the ready laughter of the\nconvened players. Summer has come; their companies have disbanded, and they take their\nrest in their favorite caravansary, while they besiege the managers\nfor engagements for the coming season. At this hour of the afternoon the day's work of tramping the rounds\nof the agents' offices is over. Past you, as you ramble distractedly\nthrough the mossy halls, flit audible visions of houris, with veiled,\nstarry eyes, flying tag-ends of things and a swish of silk,\nbequeathing to the dull hallways an odor of gaiety and a memory of\n_frangipanni_. Serious young comedians, with versatile Adam's apples,\ngather in doorways and talk of Booth. Far-reaching from somewhere\ncomes the smell of ham and red cabbage, and the crash of dishes on\nthe American plan. The indeterminate hum of life in the Thalia is enlivened by the\ndiscreet popping--at reasonable and salubrious intervals--of\nbeer-bottle corks. Thus punctuated, life in the genial hostel scans\neasily--the comma being the favorite mark, semicolons frowned upon,\nand periods barred. Miss D'Armande's room was a small one. There was room for her rocker\nbetween the dresser and the wash-stand if it were placed\nlongitudinally. On the dresser were its usual accoutrements, plus the\nex-leading lady's collected souvenirs of road engagements and\nphotographs of her dearest and best professional friends. At one of these photographs she looked twice or thrice as she darned,\nand smiled friendlily. \"I'd like to know where Lee is just this minute,\" she said,\nhalf-aloud.", "words": 288}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "If you had been privileged to view the photograph thus flattered, you\nwould have thought at the first glance that you saw the picture of a\nmany-petalled white flower, blown through the air by a storm. But the\nfloral kingdom was not responsible for that swirl of petalous\nwhiteness. You saw the filmy, brief skirt of Miss Rosalie Ray as she made a\ncomplete heels-over-head turn in her wistaria-entwined swing, far out\nfrom the stage, high above the heads of the audience. You saw the\ncamera's inadequate representation of the graceful, strong kick, with\nwhich she, at this exciting moment, sent flying, high and far, the\nyellow silk garter that each evening spun from her agile limb and\ndescended upon the delighted audience below. You saw, too, amid the black-clothed, mainly masculine patrons of\nselect vaudeville a hundred hands raised with the hope of staying the\nflight of the brilliant a\u00ebrial token. Forty weeks of the best circuits this act had brought Miss Rosalie\nRay, for each of two years. She did other things during her twelve\nminutes--a song and dance, imitations of two or three actors who are\nbut imitations of themselves, and a balancing feat with a step-ladder\nand feather-duster; but when the blossom-decked swing was let down\nfrom the flies, and Miss Rosalie sprang smiling into the seat, with\nthe golden circlet conspicuous in the place whence it was soon to\nslide and become a soaring and coveted guerdon--then it was that the\naudience rose in its seat as a single man--or presumably so--and\nindorsed the specialty that made Miss Ray's name a favorite in the\nbooking-offices. At the end of the two years Miss Ray suddenly announced to her dear\nfriend, Miss D'Armande, that she was going to spend the summer at an\nantediluvian village on the north shore of Long Island, and that the\nstage would see her no more.", "words": 315}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Seventeen minutes after Miss Lynnette D'Armande had expressed her\nwish to know the whereabouts of her old chum, there were sharp raps\nat her door. Doubt not that it was Rosalie Ray. At the shrill command to enter she\ndid so, with something of a tired flutter, and dropped a heavy\nhand-bag on the floor. Upon my word, it was Rosalie, in a loose,\ntravel-stained automobileless coat, closely tied brown veil with\nyard-long, flying ends, gray walking-suit and tan oxfords with\nlavender overgaiters. When she threw off her veil and hat, you saw a pretty enough face,\nnow flushed and disturbed by some unusual emotion, and restless,\nlarge eyes with discontent marring their brightness. A heavy pile of\ndull auburn hair, hastily put up, was escaping in crinkly, waving\nstrands and curling, small locks from the confining combs and pins. The meeting of the two was not marked by the effusion vocal,\ngymnastical, osculatory and catechetical that distinguishes the\ngreetings of their unprofessional sisters in society. There was a\nbrief clinch, two simultaneous labial dabs and they stood on the same\nfooting of the old days. Very much like the short salutations of\nsoldiers or of travellers in foreign wilds are the welcomes between\nthe strollers at the corners of their criss-cross roads. \"I've got the hall-room two flights up above yours,\" said Rosalie,\n\"but I came straight to see you before going up. I didn't know you\nwere here till they told me.\" \"I've been in since the last of April,\" said Lynnette. \"And I'm going\non the road with a 'Fatal Inheritance' company. We open next week in\nElizabeth. I thought you'd quit the stage, Lee. Tell me about\nyourself.\"", "words": 282}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Rosalie settled herself with a skilful wriggle on the top of Miss\nD'Armande's wardrobe trunk, and leaned her head against the papered\nwall. From long habit, thus can peripatetic leading ladies and\ntheir sisters make themselves as comfortable as though the deepest\narmchairs embraced them. \"I'm going to tell you, Lynn,\" she said, with a strangely sardonic\nand yet carelessly resigned look on her youthful face. \"And then\nto-morrow I'll strike the old Broadway trail again, and wear some\nmore paint off the chairs in the agents' offices. If anybody had told\nme any time in the last three months up to four o'clock this\nafternoon that I'd ever listen to that 'Leave-your-name-and-address'\nrot of the booking bunch again, I'd have given 'em the real Mrs.\nFiske laugh. Loan me a handkerchief, Lynn. Gee! but those Long Island\ntrains are fierce. I've got enough soft-coal cinders on my face to go\non and play _Topsy_ without using the cork. And, speaking of corks--\ngot anything to drink, Lynn?\" Miss D'Armande opened a door of the wash-stand and took out a bottle. \"There's nearly a pint of Manhattan. There's a cluster of carnations\nin the drinking glass, but--\" \"Oh, pass the bottle. Save the glass for company. Thanks! That hits\nthe spot. The same to you. My first drink in three months! \"Yes, Lynn, I quit the stage at the end of last season. I quit it\nbecause I was sick of the life. And especially because my heart and\nsoul were sick of men--of the kind of men we stage people have to be\nup against. You know what the game is to us--it's a fight against 'em\nall the way down the line from the manager who wants us to try his\nnew motor-car to the bill-posters who want to call us by our front\nnames.", "words": 307}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"And the men we have to meet after the show are the worst of all. The\nstage-door kind, and the manager's friends who take us to supper and\nshow their diamonds and talk about seeing 'Dan' and 'Dave' and\n'Charlie' for us. They're beasts, and I hate 'em. \"I tell you, Lynn, it's the girls like us on the stage that ought to\nbe pitied. It's girls from good homes that are honestly ambitious and\nwork hard to rise in the profession, but never do get there. You hear\na lot of sympathy sloshed around on chorus girls and their fifteen\ndollars a week. Piffle! There ain't a sorrow in the chorus that a\nlobster cannot heal. \"If there's any tears to shed, let 'em fall for the actress that gets\na salary of from thirty to forty-five dollars a week for taking a\nleading part in a bum show. She knows she'll never do any better; but\nshe hangs on for years, hoping for the 'chance' I that never comes. \"And the fool plays we have to work in! Having another girl roll you\naround the stage by the hind legs in a 'Wheelbarrow Chorus' in a\nmusical comedy is dignified drama compared with the idiotic things\nI've had to do in the thirty-centers. \"But what I hated most was the men--the men leering and blathering at\nyou across tables, trying to buy you with W\u00fcrzburger or Extra Dry,\naccording to their estimate of your price. And the men in the\naudiences, clapping, yelling, snarling, crowding, writhing,\ngloating--like a lot of wild beasts, with their eyes fixed on you,\nready to eat you up if you come in reach of their claws. Oh, how I\nhate 'em! \"Well, I'm not telling you much about myself, am I, Lynn?", "words": 299}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"I had two hundred dollars saved up, and I cut the stage the first of\nthe summer. I went over on Long Island and found the sweetest little\nvillage that ever was, called Soundport, right on the water. I was\ngoing to spend the summer there, and study up on elocution, and try\nto get a class in the fall. There was an old widow lady with a\ncottage near the beach who sometimes rented a room or two just for\ncompany, and she took me in. She had another boarder, too--the\nReverend Arthur Lyle. \"Yes, he was the head-liner. You're on, Lynn. I'll tell you all of it\nin a minute. It's only a one-act play. \"The first time he walked on, Lynn, I felt myself going; the first\nlines he spoke, he had me. He was different from the men in\naudiences. He was tall and slim, and you never heard him come in the\nroom, but you felt him. He had a face like a picture of a\nknight--like one of that Round Table bunch--and a voice like a 'cello\nsolo. And his manners! \"Lynn, if you'd take John Drew in his best drawing-room scene and\ncompare the two, you'd have John arrested for disturbing the peace. \"I'll spare you the particulars; but in less than a month Arthur and\nI were engaged. He preached at a little one-night stand of a\nMethodist church. There was to be a parsonage the size of a\nlunch-wagon, and hens and honeysuckles when we were married. Arthur\nused to preach to me a good deal about Heaven, but he never could get\nmy mind quite off those honeysuckles and hens.", "words": 280}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"No; I didn't tell him I'd been on the stage. I hated the business\nand all that went with it; I'd cut it out forever, and I didn't see\nany use of stirring things up. I was a good girl, and I didn't have\nanything to confess, except being an elocutionist, and that was about\nall the strain my conscience would stand. \"Oh, I tell you, Lynn, I was happy. I sang in the choir and attended\nthe sewing society, and recited that 'Annie Laurie' thing with the\nwhistling stunt in it, 'in a manner bordering upon the professional,'\nas the weekly village paper reported it. And Arthur and I went\nrowing, and walking in the woods, and clamming, and that poky little\nvillage seemed to me the best place in the world. I'd have been happy\nto live there always, too, if-- \"But one morning old Mrs. Gurley, the widow lady, got gossipy while I\nwas helping her string beans on the back porch, and began to gush\ninformation, as folks who rent out their rooms usually do. Mr. Lyle\nwas her idea of a saint on earth--as he was mine, too. She went over\nall his virtues and graces, and wound up by telling me that Arthur\nhad had an extremely romantic love-affair, not long before, that had\nended unhappily. She didn't seem to be on to the details, but she\nknew that he had been hit pretty hard. He was paler and thinner, she\nsaid, and he had some kind of a remembrance or keepsake of the lady\nin a little rosewood box that he kept locked in his desk drawer in\nhis study. \"'Several times,' says she, 'I've seen him gloomerin' over that box\nof evenings, and he always locks it up right away if anybody comes\ninto the room.'", "words": 304}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"Well, you can imagine how long it was before I got Arthur by the\nwrist and led him down stage and hissed in his ear. \"That same afternoon we were lazying around in a boat among the\nwater-lilies at the edge of the bay. \"'Arthur,' says I, 'you never told me you'd had another love-affair.\nBut Mrs. Gurley did,' I went on, to let him know I knew. I hate to\nhear a man lie. \"'Before you came,' says he, looking me frankly in the eye, 'there\nwas a previous affection--a strong one. Since you know of it, I will\nbe perfectly candid with you.' \"'I am waiting,' says I. \"'My dear Ida,' says Arthur--of course I went by my real name, while\nI was in Soundport--'this former affection was a spiritual one, in\nfact. Although the lady aroused my deepest sentiments, and was, as I\nthought, my ideal woman, I never met her, and never spoke to her. It\nwas an ideal love. My love for you, while no less ideal, is\ndifferent. You wouldn't let that come between us.' \"'Was she pretty?' I asked. \"'She was very beautiful,' said Arthur. \"'Did you see her often?' I asked. \"'Something like a dozen times,' says he. \"'Always from a distance?' says I. \"'Always from quite a distance,' says he. \"'And you loved her?' I asked. \"'She seemed my ideal of beauty and grace--and soul,' says Arthur. \"'And this keepsake that you keep under lock and key, and moon over\nat times, is that a remembrance from her?' \"'A memento,' says Arthur, 'that I have treasured.' \"'Did she send it to you?' \"'It came to me from her,' says he. \"'In a roundabout way?' I asked. \"'Somewhat roundabout,' says he, 'and yet rather direct.' \"'Why didn't you ever meet her?' I asked. 'Were your positions in\nlife so different?'", "words": 308}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"'She was far above me,' says Arthur. 'Now, Ida,' he goes on, 'this\nis all of the past. You're not going to be jealous, are you?' \"'Jealous!' says I. 'Why, man, what are you talking about? It makes\nme think ten times as much of you as I did before I knew about it.' \"And it did, Lynn--if you can understand it. That ideal love was a\nnew one on me, but it struck me as being the most beautiful and\nglorious thing I'd ever heard of. Think of a man loving a woman he'd\nnever even spoken to, and being faithful just to what his mind and\nheart pictured her! Oh, it sounded great to me. The men I'd always\nknown come at you with either diamonds, knock-out-drops or a raise of\nsalary,--and their ideals!--well, we'll say no more. \"Yes, it made me think more of Arthur than I did before. I couldn't\nbe jealous of that far-away divinity that he used to worship, for I\nwas going to have him myself. And I began to look upon him as a saint\non earth, just as old lady Gurley did. \"About four o'clock this afternoon a man came to the house for Arthur\nto go and see somebody that was sick among his church bunch. Old lady\nGurley was taking her afternoon snore on a couch, so that left me\npretty much alone. \"In passing by Arthur's study I looked in, and saw his bunch of keys\nhanging in the drawer of his desk, where he'd forgotten 'em. Well, I\nguess we're all to the Mrs. Bluebeard now and then, ain't we, Lynn? I\nmade up my mind I'd have a look at that memento he kept so secret.\nNot that I cared what it was--it was just curiosity.", "words": 300}, {"story": 23, "title": "THE MEMENTO", "volume": "The Voice of the City: Further Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\"While I was opening the drawer I imagined one or two things it might\nbe. I thought it might be a dried rosebud she'd dropped down to him\nfrom a balcony, or maybe a picture of her he'd cut out of a magazine,\nshe being so high up in the world. \"I opened the drawer, and there was the rosewood casket about the\nsize of a gent's collar box. I found the little key in the bunch that\nfitted it, and unlocked it and raised the lid. \"I took one look at that memento, and then I went to my room and\npacked my trunk. I threw a few things into my grip, gave my hair a\nflirt or two with a side-comb, put on my hat, and went in and gave\nthe old lady's foot a kick. I'd tried awfully hard to use proper and\ncorrect language while I was there for Arthur's sake, and I had the\nhabit down pat, but it left me then. \"'Stop sawing gourds,' says I, 'and sit up and take notice. The\nghost's about to walk. I'm going away from here, and I owe you eight\ndollars. The expressman will call for my trunk.' \"I handed her the money. \"'Dear me, Miss Crosby!' says she. 'Is anything wrong? I thought you\nwere pleased here. Dear me, young women are so hard to understand,\nand so different from what you expect 'em to be.' \"'You're damn right,' says I. 'Some of 'em are. But you can't say\nthat about men. WHEN YOU KNOW ONE MAN YOU KNOW 'EM ALL! That settles\nthe human-race question.' \"And then I caught the four-thirty-eight, soft-coal unlimited; and\nhere I am.\" \"You didn't tell me what was in the box, Lee,\" said Miss D'armande,\nanxiously.", "words": 296}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I suppose you know all about the stage and stage people. You\u2019ve been\ntouched with and by actors, and you read the newspaper criticisms and\nthe jokes in the weeklies about the Rialto and the chorus girls and the\nlong-haired tragedians. And I suppose that a condensed list of your\nideas about the mysterious stageland would boil down to something like\nthis: Leading ladies have five husbands, paste diamonds, and figures no\nbetter than your own (madam) if they weren\u2019t padded. Chorus girls are\ninseparable from peroxide, Panhards and Pittsburg. All shows walk back\nto New York on tan oxford and railroad ties. Irreproachable actresses\nreserve the comic-landlady part for their mothers on Broadway and their\nstep-aunts on the road. Kyrle Bellew\u2019s real name is Boyle O\u2019Kelley. The\nravings of John McCullough in the phonograph were stolen from the first\nsale of the Ellen Terry memoirs. Joe Weber is funnier than E. H.\nSothern; but Henry Miller is getting older than he was. All theatrical people on leaving the theatre at night drink champagne\nand eat lobsters until noon the next day. After all, the moving\npictures have got the whole bunch pounded to a pulp. Now, few of us know the real life of the stage people. If we did, the\nprofession might be more overcrowded than it is. We look askance at the\nplayers with an eye full of patronizing superiority\u2014and we go home and\npractise all sorts of elocution and gestures in front of our looking\nglasses.", "words": 250}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Latterly there has been much talk of the actor people in a new light.\nIt seems to have been divulged that instead of being motoring\nbacchanalians and diamond-hungry _loreleis_ they are businesslike folk,\nstudents and ascetics with childer and homes and libraries, owning real\nestate, and conducting their private affairs in as orderly and\nunsensational a manner as any of us good citizens who are bound to the\nchariot wheels of the gas, rent, coal, ice, and wardmen. Whether the old or the new report of the sock-and-buskiners be the true\none is a surmise that has no place here. I offer you merely this little\nstory of two strollers; and for proof of its truth I can show you only\nthe dark patch above the cast-iron of the stage-entrance door of\nKeetor\u2019s old vaudeville theatre made there by the petulant push of\ngloved hands too impatient to finger the clumsy thumb-latch\u2014and where I\nlast saw Cherry whisking through like a swallow into her nest, on time\nto the minute, as usual, to dress for her act. The vaudeville team of Hart & Cherry was an inspiration. Bob Hart had\nbeen roaming through the Eastern and Western circuits for four years\nwith a mixed-up act comprising a monologue, three lightning changes\nwith songs, a couple of imitations of celebrated imitators, and a\nbuck-and-wing dance that had drawn a glance of approval from the\nbass-viol player in more than one house\u2014than which no performer ever\nreceived more satisfactory evidence of good work.", "words": 251}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The greatest treat an actor can have is to witness the pitiful\nperformance with which all other actors desecrate the stage. In order\nto give himself this pleasure he will often forsake the sunniest\nBroadway corner between Thirty-fourth and Forty-fourth to attend a\nmatin\u00e9e offering by his less gifted brothers. Once during the lifetime\nof a minstrel joke one comes to scoff and remains to go through with\nthat most difficult exercise of Thespian muscles\u2014the audible contact of\nthe palm of one hand against the palm of the other. One afternoon Bob Hart presented his solvent, serious, well-known\nvaudevillian face at the box-office window of a rival attraction and\ngot his d. h. coupon for an orchestra seat. A, B, C, and D glowed successively on the announcement spaces and\npassed into oblivion, each plunging Mr. Hart deeper into gloom. Others\nof the audience shrieked, squirmed, whistled, and applauded; but Bob\nHart, \u201cAll the Mustard and a Whole Show in Himself,\u201d sat with his face\nas long and his hands as far apart as a boy holding a hank of yarn for\nhis grandmother to wind into a ball. But when H came on, \u201cThe Mustard\u201d suddenly sat up straight. H was the\nhappy alphabetical prognosticator of Winona Cherry, in Character Songs\nand Impersonations. There were scarcely more than two bites to Cherry;\nbut she delivered the merchandise tied with a pink cord and charged to\nthe old man\u2019s account. She first showed you a deliciously dewy and\nginghamy country girl with a basket of property daisies who informed\nyou ingenuously that there were other things to be learned at the old\nlog school-house besides cipherin\u2019 and nouns, especially \u201cWhen the\nTeach-er Kept Me in.\u201d Vanishing, with a quick flirt of gingham\napron-strings, she reappeared in considerably less than a \u201ctrice\u201d as a\nfluffy \u201cParisienne\u201d\u2014so near does Art bring the old red mill to the\nMoulin Rouge. And then\u2014", "words": 319}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But you know the rest. And so did Bob Hart; but he saw somebody else.\nHe thought he saw that Cherry was the only professional on the short\norder stage that he had seen who seemed exactly to fit the part of\n\u201cHelen Grimes\u201d in the sketch he had written and kept tucked away in the\ntray of his trunk. Of course Bob Hart, as well as every other normal\nactor, grocer, newspaper man, professor, curb broker, and farmer, has a\nplay tucked away somewhere. They tuck \u2019em in trays of trunks, trunks of\ntrees, desks, haymows, pigeonholes, inside pockets, safe-deposit\nvaults, handboxes, and coal cellars, waiting for Mr. Frohman to call.\nThey belong among the fifty-seven different kinds. But Bob Hart\u2019s sketch was not destined to end in a pickle jar. He\ncalled it \u201cMice Will Play.\u201d He had kept it quiet and hidden away ever\nsince he wrote it, waiting to find a partner who fitted his conception\nof \u201cHelen Grimes.\u201d And here was \u201cHelen\u201d herself, with all the innocent\nabandon, the youth, the sprightliness, and the flawless stage art that\nhis critical taste demanded. After the act was over Hart found the manager in the box office, and\ngot Cherry\u2019s address. At five the next afternoon he called at the musty\nold house in the West Forties and sent up his professional card. By daylight, in a secular shirtwaist and plain _voile_ skirt, with her\nhair curbed and her Sister of Charity eyes, Winona Cherry might have\nbeen playing the part of Prudence Wise, the deacon\u2019s daughter, in the\ngreat (unwritten) New England drama not yet entitled anything. \u201cI know your act, Mr. Hart,\u201d she said after she had looked over his\ncard carefully. \u201cWhat did you wish to see me about?\u201d", "words": 295}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI saw you work last night,\u201d said Hart. \u201cI\u2019ve written a sketch that\nI\u2019ve been saving up. It\u2019s for two; and I think you can do the other\npart. I thought I\u2019d see you about it.\u201d \u201cCome in the parlor,\u201d said Miss Cherry. \u201cI\u2019ve been wishing for\nsomething of the sort. I think I\u2019d like to act instead of doing turns.\u201d Bob Hart drew his cherished \u201cMice Will Play\u201d from his pocket, and read\nit to her. \u201cRead it again, please,\u201d said Miss Cherry. And then she pointed out to him clearly how it could be improved by\nintroducing a messenger instead of a telephone call, and cutting the\ndialogue just before the climax while they were struggling with the\npistol, and by completely changing the lines and business of Helen\nGrimes at the point where her jealousy overcomes her. Hart yielded to\nall her strictures without argument. She had at once put her finger on\nthe sketch\u2019s weaker points. That was her woman\u2019s intuition that he had\nlacked. At the end of their talk Hart was willing to stake the\njudgment, experience, and savings of his four years of vaudeville that\n\u201cMice Will Play\u201d would blossom into a perennial flower in the garden of\nthe circuits. Miss Cherry was slower to decide. After many puckerings\nof her smooth young brow and tappings on her small, white teeth with\nthe end of a lead pencil she gave out her dictum.", "words": 240}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMr. Hart,\u201d said she, \u201cI believe your sketch is going to win out. That\nGrimes part fits me like a shrinkable flannel after its first trip to a\nhandless hand laundry. I can make it stand out like the colonel of the\nForty-fourth Regiment at a Little Mothers\u2019 Bazaar. And I\u2019ve seen you\nwork. I know what you can do with the other part. But business is\nbusiness. How much do you get a week for the stunt you do now?\u201d \u201cTwo hundred,\u201d answered Hart. \u201cI get one hundred for mine,\u201d said Cherry. \u201cThat\u2019s about the natural\ndiscount for a woman. But I live on it and put a few simoleons every\nweek under the loose brick in the old kitchen hearth. The stage is all\nright. I love it; but there\u2019s something else I love better\u2014that\u2019s a\nlittle country home, some day, with Plymouth Rock chickens and six\nducks wandering around the yard. \u201cNow, let me tell you, Mr. Hart, I am STRICTLY BUSINESS. If you want me\nto play the opposite part in your sketch, I\u2019ll do it. And I believe we\ncan make it go. And there\u2019s something else I want to say: There\u2019s no\nnonsense in my make-up; I\u2019m _on the level_, and I\u2019m on the stage for\nwhat it pays me, just as other girls work in stores and offices. I\u2019m\ngoing to save my money to keep me when I\u2019m past doing my stunts. No Old\nLadies\u2019 Home or Retreat for Imprudent Actresses for me.", "words": 251}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIf you want to make this a business partnership, Mr. Hart, with all\nnonsense cut out of it, I\u2019m in on it. I know something about vaudeville\nteams in general; but this would have to be one in particular. I want\nyou to know that I\u2019m on the stage for what I can cart away from it\nevery pay-day in a little manila envelope with nicotine stains on it,\nwhere the cashier has licked the flap. It\u2019s kind of a hobby of mine to\nwant to cravenette myself for plenty of rainy days in the future. I\nwant you to know just how I am. I don\u2019t know what an all-night\nrestaurant looks like; I drink only weak tea; I never spoke to a man at\na stage entrance in my life, and I\u2019ve got money in five savings banks.\u201d \u201cMiss Cherry,\u201d said Bob Hart in his smooth, serious tones, \u201cyou\u2019re in\non your own terms. I\u2019ve got \u2018strictly business\u2019 pasted in my hat and\nstenciled on my make-up box. When I dream of nights I always see a\nfive-room bungalow on the north shore of Long Island, with a Jap\ncooking clam broth and duckling in the kitchen, and me with the title\ndeeds to the place in my pongee coat pocket, swinging in a hammock on\nthe side porch, reading Stanley\u2019s \u2018Explorations into Africa.\u2019 And\nnobody else around. You never was interested in Africa, was you, Miss\nCherry?\u201d \u201cNot any,\u201d said Cherry. \u201cWhat I\u2019m going to do with my money is to bank\nit. You can get four per cent. on deposits. Even at the salary I\u2019ve\nbeen earning, I\u2019ve figured out that in ten years I\u2019d have an income of\nabout $50 a month just from the interest alone. Well, I might invest\nsome of the principal in a little business\u2014say, trimming hats or a\nbeauty parlor, and make more.\u201d", "words": 313}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWell,\u201d said Hart, \u201cYou\u2019ve got the proper idea all right, all right,\nanyhow. There are mighty few actors that amount to anything at all who\ncouldn\u2019t fix themselves for the wet days to come if they\u2019d save their\nmoney instead of blowing it. I\u2019m glad you\u2019ve got the correct business\nidea of it, Miss Cherry. I think the same way; and I believe this\nsketch will more than double what both of us earn now when we get it\nshaped up.\u201d The subsequent history of \u201cMice Will Play\u201d is the history of all\nsuccessful writings for the stage. Hart & Cherry cut it, pieced it,\nremodeled it, performed surgical operations on the dialogue and\nbusiness, changed the lines, restored \u2019em, added more, cut \u2019em out,\nrenamed it, gave it back the old name, rewrote it, substituted a dagger\nfor the pistol, restored the pistol\u2014put the sketch through all the\nknown processes of condensation and improvement. They rehearsed it by the old-fashioned boardinghouse clock in the\nrarely used parlor until its warning click at five minutes to the hour\nwould occur every time exactly half a second before the click of the\nunloaded revolver that Helen Grimes used in rehearsing the thrilling\nclimax of the sketch.", "words": 205}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Yes, that was a thriller and a piece of excellent work. In the act a\nreal 32-caliber revolver was used loaded with a real cartridge. Helen\nGrimes, who is a Western girl of decidedly Buffalo Billish skill and\ndaring, is tempestuously in love with Frank Desmond, the private\nsecretary and confidential prospective son-in-law of her father,\n\u201cArapahoe\u201d Grimes, quarter-million-dollar cattle king, owning a ranch\nthat, judging by the scenery, is in either the Bad Lands or Amagansett,\nI. Desmond (in private life Mr. Bob Hart) wears puttees and Meadow\nBrook Hunt riding trousers, and gives his address as New York, leaving\nyou to wonder why he comes to the Bad Lands or Amagansett (as the case\nmay be) and at the same time to conjecture mildly why a cattleman\nshould want puttees about his ranch with a secretary in \u2019em. Well, anyhow, you know as well as I do that we all like that kind of\nplay, whether we admit it or not\u2014something along in between \u201cBluebeard,\nJr.,\u201d and \u201cCymbeline\u201d played in the Russian. There were only two parts and a half in \u201cMice Will Play.\u201d Hart and\nCherry were the two, of course; and the half was a minor part always\nplayed by a stage hand, who merely came in once in a Tuxedo coat and a\npanic to announce that the house was surrounded by Indians, and to turn\ndown the gas fire in the grate by the manager\u2019s orders. There was another girl in the sketch\u2014a Fifth Avenue society\nswelless\u2014who was visiting the ranch and who had sirened Jack Valentine\nwhen he was a wealthy club-man on lower Third Avenue before he lost his\nmoney. This girl appeared on the stage only in the photographic\nstate\u2014Jack had her Sarony stuck up on the mantel of the Amagan\u2014of the\nBad Lands droring room. Helen was jealous, of course.", "words": 310}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And now for the thriller. Old \u201cArapahoe\u201d Grimes dies of angina pectoris\none night\u2014so Helen informs us in a stage-ferryboat whisper over the\nfootlights\u2014while only his secretary was present. And that same day he\nwas known to have had $647,000 in cash in his (ranch) library just\nreceived for the sale of a drove of beeves in the East (that accounts\nfor the price we pay for steak!). The cash disappears at the same time.\nJack Valentine was the only person with the ranchman when he made his\n(alleged) croak. \u201cGawd knows I love him; but if he has done this deed\u2014\u201d you sabe, don\u2019t\nyou? And then there are some mean things said about the Fifth Avenue\nGirl\u2014who doesn\u2019t come on the stage\u2014and can we blame her, with the\nvaudeville trust holding down prices until one actually must be\nbuttoned in the back by a call boy, maids cost so much? But, wait. Here\u2019s the climax. Helen Grimes, chaparralish as she can be,\nis goaded beyond imprudence. She convinces herself that Jack Valentine\nis not only a falsetto, but a financier. To lose at one fell swoop\n$647,000 and a lover in riding trousers with angles in the sides like\nthe variations on the chart of a typhoid-fever patient is enough to\nmake any perfect lady mad. So, then! They stand in the (ranch) library, which is furnished with mounted elk\nheads (didn\u2019t the Elks have a fish fry in Amagensett once?), and the\nd\u00e9nouement begins. I know of no more interesting time in the run of a\nplay unless it be when the prologue ends.", "words": 267}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Helen thinks Jack has taken the money. Who else was there to take it?\nThe box-office manager was at the front on his job; the orchestra\nhadn\u2019t left their seats; and no man could get past \u201cOld Jimmy,\u201d the\nstage door-man, unless he could show a Skye terrier or an automobile as\na guarantee of eligibility. Goaded beyond imprudence (as before said), Helen says to Jack\nValentine: \u201cRobber and thief\u2014and worse yet, stealer of trusting hearts,\nthis should be your fate!\u201d With that out she whips, of course, the trusty 32-caliber. \u201cBut I will be merciful,\u201d goes on Helen. \u201cYou shall live\u2014that will be\nyour punishment. I will show you how easily I could have sent you to\nthe death that you deserve. There is _her_ picture on the mantel. I\nwill send through her more beautiful face the bullet that should have\npierced your craven heart.\u201d And she does it. And there\u2019s no fake blank cartridges or assistants\npulling strings. Helen fires. The bullet\u2014the actual bullet\u2014goes through\nthe face of the photograph\u2014and then strikes the hidden spring of the\nsliding panel in the wall\u2014and lo! the panel slides, and there is the\nmissing $647,000 in convincing stacks of currency and bags of gold.\nIt\u2019s great. You know how it is. Cherry practised for two months at a\ntarget on the roof of her boarding house. It took good shooting. In the\nsketch she had to hit a brass disk only three inches in diameter,\ncovered by wall paper in the panel; and she had to stand in exactly the\nsame spot every night, and the photo had to be in exactly the same\nspot, and she had to shoot steady and true every time.", "words": 285}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Of course old \u201cArapahoe\u201d had tucked the funds away there in the secret\nplace; and, of course, Jack hadn\u2019t taken anything except his salary\n(which really might have come under the head of \u201cobtaining money\nunder\u201d; but that is neither here nor there); and, of course, the New\nYork girl was really engaged to a concrete house contractor in the\nBronx; and, necessarily, Jack and Helen ended in a half-Nelson\u2014and\nthere you are. After Hart and Cherry had gotten \u201cMice Will Play\u201d flawless, they had a\ntry-out at a vaudeville house that accommodates. The sketch was a house\nwrecker. It was one of those rare strokes of talent that inundates a\ntheatre from the roof down. The gallery wept; and the orchestra seats,\nbeing dressed for it, swam in tears. After the show the booking agents signed blank checks and pressed\nfountain pens upon Hart and Cherry. Five hundred dollars a week was\nwhat it panned out. That night at 11:30 Bob Hart took off his hat and bade Cherry good\nnight at her boarding-house door. \u201cMr. Hart,\u201d said she thoughtfully, \u201ccome inside just a few minutes.\nWe\u2019ve got our chance now to make good and make money. What we want to\ndo is to cut expenses every cent we can, and save all we can.\u201d \u201cRight,\u201d said Bob. \u201cIt\u2019s business with me. You\u2019ve got your scheme for\nbanking yours; and I dream every night of that bungalow with the Jap\ncook and nobody around to raise trouble. Anything to enlarge the net\nreceipts will engage my attention.\u201d \u201cCome inside just a few minutes,\u201d repeated Cherry, deeply thoughtful.\n\u201cI\u2019ve got a proposition to make to you that will reduce our expenses a\nlot and help you work out your own future and help me work out mine\u2014and\nall on business principles.\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMice Will Play\u201d had a tremendously successful run in New York for ten\nweeks\u2014rather neat for a vaudeville sketch\u2014and then it started on the\ncircuits. Without following it, it may be said that it was a solid\ndrawing card for two years without a sign of abated popularity. Sam Packard, manager of one of Keetor\u2019s New York houses, said of Hart &\nCherry: \u201cAs square and high-toned a little team as ever came over the circuit.\nIt\u2019s a pleasure to read their names on the booking list. Quiet, hard\nworkers, no Johnny and Mabel nonsense, on the job to the minute,\nstraight home after their act, and each of \u2019em as gentlemanlike as a\nlady. I don\u2019t expect to handle any attractions that give me less\ntrouble or more respect for the profession.\u201d And now, after so much cracking of a nutshell, here is the kernel of\nthe story: At the end of its second season \u201cMice Will Play\u201d came back to New York\nfor another run at the roof gardens and summer theatres. There was\nnever any trouble in booking it at the top-notch price. Bob Hart had\nhis bungalow nearly paid for, and Cherry had so many savings-deposit\nbank books that she had begun to buy sectional bookcases on the\ninstalment plan to hold them. I tell you these things to assure you, even if you can\u2019t believe it,\nthat many, very many of the stage people are workers with abiding\nambitions\u2014just the same as the man who wants to be president, or the\ngrocery clerk who wants a home in Flatbush, or a lady who is anxious to\nflop out of the Count-pan into the Prince-fire. And I hope I may be\nallowed to say, without chipping into the contribution basket, that\nthey often move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform. But, listen.", "words": 308}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the first performance of \u201cMice Will Play\u201d in New York at the\nWestphalia (no hams alluded to) Theatre, Winona Cherry was nervous.\nWhen she fired at the photograph of the Eastern beauty on the mantel,\nthe bullet, instead of penetrating the photo and then striking the\ndisk, went into the lower left side of Bob Hart\u2019s neck. Not expecting\nto get it there, Hart collapsed neatly, while Cherry fainted in a most\nartistic manner. The audience, surmising that they viewed a comedy instead of a tragedy\nin which the principals were married or reconciled, applauded with\ngreat enjoyment. The Cool Head, who always graces such occasions, rang\nthe curtain down, and two platoons of scene shifters respectively and\nmore or less respectfully removed Hart & Cherry from the stage. The\nnext turn went on, and all went as merry as an alimony bell. The stage hands found a young doctor at the stage entrance who was\nwaiting for a patient with a decoction of Am. B\u2019ty roses. The doctor\nexamined Hart carefully and laughed heartily. \u201cNo headlines for you, Old Sport,\u201d was his diagnosis. \u201cIf it had been\ntwo inches to the left it would have undermined the carotid artery as\nfar as the Red Front Drug Store in Flatbush and Back Again. As it is,\nyou just get the property man to bind it up with a flounce torn from\nany one of the girls\u2019 Valenciennes and go home and get it dressed by\nthe parlor-floor practitioner on your block, and you\u2019ll be all right.\nExcuse me; I\u2019ve got a serious case outside to look after.\u201d", "words": 268}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "After that, Bob Hart looked up and felt better. And then to where he\nlay came Vincente, the Tramp Juggler, great in his line. Vincente, a\nsolemn man from Brattleboro, Vt., named Sam Griggs at home, sent toys\nand maple sugar home to two small daughters from every town he played.\nVincente had moved on the same circuits with Hart & Cherry, and was\ntheir peripatetic friend. \u201cBob,\u201d said Vincente in his serious way, \u201cI\u2019m glad it\u2019s no worse. The\nlittle lady is wild about you.\u201d \u201cWho?\u201d asked Hart. \u201cCherry,\u201d said the juggler. \u201cWe didn\u2019t know how bad you were hurt; and\nwe kept her away. It\u2019s taking the manager and three girls to hold her.\u201d \u201cIt was an accident, of course,\u201d said Hart. \u201cCherry\u2019s all right. She\nwasn\u2019t feeling in good trim or she couldn\u2019t have done it. There\u2019s no\nhard feelings. She\u2019s strictly business. The doctor says I\u2019ll be on the\njob again in three days. Don\u2019t let her worry.\u201d \u201cMan,\u201d said Sam Griggs severely, puckering his old, smooth, lined face,\n\u201care you a chess automaton or a human pincushion? Cherry\u2019s crying her\nheart out for you\u2014calling \u2018Bob, Bob,\u2019 every second, with them holding\nher hands and keeping her from coming to you.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with her?\u201d asked Hart, with wide-open eyes. \u201cThe\nsketch\u2019ll go on again in three days. I\u2019m not hurt bad, the doctor says.\nShe won\u2019t lose out half a week\u2019s salary. I know it was an accident.\nWhat\u2019s the matter with her?\u201d \u201cYou seem to be blind, or a sort of a fool,\u201d said Vincente. \u201cThe girl\nloves you and is almost mad about your hurt. What\u2019s the matter with\n_you_? Is she nothing to you? I wish you could hear her call you.\u201d \u201cLoves me?\u201d asked Bob Hart, rising from the stack of scenery on which\nhe lay. \u201cCherry loves me? Why, it\u2019s impossible.\u201d", "words": 312}, {"story": 24, "title": "STRICTLY BUSINESS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI wish you could see her and hear her,\u201d said Griggs. \u201cBut, man,\u201d said Bob Hart, sitting up, \u201cit\u2019s impossible. It\u2019s\nimpossible, I tell you. I never dreamed of such a thing.\u201d \u201cNo human being,\u201d said the Tramp Juggler, \u201ccould mistake it. She\u2019s wild\nfor love of you. How have you been so blind?\u201d \u201cBut, my God,\u201d said Bob Hart, rising to his feet, \u201cit\u2019s _too late_.\nIt\u2019s too late, I tell you, Sam; _it\u2019s too late_. It can\u2019t be. You must\nbe wrong. It\u2019s _impossible_. There\u2019s some mistake. \u201cShe\u2019s crying for you,\u201d said the Tramp Juggler. \u201cFor love of you she\u2019s\nfighting three, and calling your name so loud they don\u2019t dare to raise\nthe curtain. Wake up, man.\u201d \u201cFor love of me?\u201d said Bob Hart with staring eyes. \u201cDon\u2019t I tell you\nit\u2019s too late? It\u2019s too late, man. Why, _Cherry and I have been married\ntwo years!_\u201d II", "words": 151}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A story with a moral appended is like the bill of a mosquito. It bores\nyou, and then injects a stinging drop to irritate your conscience.\nTherefore let us have the moral first and be done with it. All is not\ngold that glitters, but it is a wise child that keeps the stopper in\nhis bottle of testing acid. Where Broadway skirts the corner of the square presided over by George\nthe Veracious is the Little Rialto. Here stand the actors of that\nquarter, and this is their shibboleth: \u201c\u2018Nit,\u2019 says I to Frohman, \u2018you\ncan\u2019t touch me for a kopeck less than two-fifty per,\u2019 and out I walks.\u201d Westward and southward from the Thespian glare are one or two streets\nwhere a Spanish-American colony has huddled for a little tropical\nwarmth in the nipping North. The centre of life in this precinct is \u201cEl\nRefugio,\u201d a caf\u00e9 and restaurant that caters to the volatile exiles from\nthe South. Up from Chili, Bolivia, Colombia, the rolling republics of\nCentral America and the ireful islands of the Western Indies flit the\ncloaked and sombreroed se\u00f1ores, who are scattered like burning lava by\nthe political eruptions of their several countries. Hither they come to\nlay counterplots, to bide their time, to solicit funds, to enlist\nfilibusterers, to smuggle out arms and ammunitions, to play the game at\nlong taw. In El Refugio, they find the atmosphere in which they thrive.", "words": 239}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In the restaurant of El Refugio are served compounds delightful to the\npalate of the man from Capricorn or Cancer. Altruism must halt the\nstory thus long. On, diner, weary of the culinary subterfuges of the\nGallic chef, hie thee to El Refugio! There only will you find a\nfish\u2014bluefish, shad or pompano from the Gulf\u2014baked after the Spanish\nmethod. Tomatoes give it color, individuality and soul; chili colorado\nbestows upon it zest, originality and fervor; unknown herbs furnish\npiquancy and mystery, and\u2014but its crowning glory deserves a new\nsentence. Around it, above it, beneath it, in its vicinity\u2014but never in\nit\u2014hovers an ethereal aura, an effluvium so rarefied and delicate that\nonly the Society for Psychical Research could note its origin. Do not\nsay that garlic is in the fish at El Refugio. It is not otherwise than\nas if the spirit of Garlic, flitting past, has wafted one kiss that\nlingers in the parsley-crowned dish as haunting as those kisses in\nlife, \u201cby hopeless fancy feigned on lips that are for others.\u201d And\nthen, when Conchito, the waiter, brings you a plate of brown frijoles\nand a carafe of wine that has never stood still between Oporto and El\nRefugio\u2014ah, Dios! One day a Hamburg-American liner deposited upon Pier No. 55 Gen.\nPerrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon, a passenger from Cartagena. The\nGeneral was between a claybank and a bay in complexion, had a 42-inch\nwaist and stood 5 feet 4 with his Du Barry heels. He had the mustache\nof a shooting-gallery proprietor, he wore the full dress of a Texas\ncongressman and had the important aspect of an uninstructed delegate.", "words": 273}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Gen. Falcon had enough English under his hat to enable him to inquire\nhis way to the street in which El Refugio stood. When he reached that\nneighborhood he saw a sign before a respectable red-brick house that\nread, \u201cHotel Espa\u00f1ol.\u201d In the window was a card in Spanish, \u201cAqui se\nhabla Espa\u00f1ol.\u201d The General entered, sure of a congenial port. In the cozy office was Mrs. O\u2019Brien, the proprietress. She had\nblond\u2014oh, unimpeachably blond hair. For the rest she was amiability,\nand ran largely to inches around. Gen. Falcon brushed the floor with\nhis broad-brimmed hat, and emitted a quantity of Spanish, the syllables\nsounding like firecrackers gently popping their way down the string of\na bunch. \u201cSpanish or Dago?\u201d asked Mrs. O\u2019Brien, pleasantly. \u201cI am a Colombian, madam,\u201d said the General, proudly. \u201cI speak the\nSpanish. The advisement in your window say the Spanish he is spoken\nhere. How is that?\u201d \u201cWell, you\u2019ve been speaking it, ain\u2019t you?\u201d said the madam. \u201cI\u2019m sure I\ncan\u2019t.\u201d At the Hotel Espa\u00f1ol General Falcon engaged rooms and established\nhimself. At dusk he sauntered out upon the streets to view the wonders\nof this roaring city of the North. As he walked he thought of the\nwonderful golden hair of Mme. O\u2019Brien. \u201cIt is here,\u201d said the General\nto himself, no doubt in his own language, \u201cthat one shall find the most\nbeautiful se\u00f1oras in the world. I have not in my Colombia viewed among\nour beauties one so fair. But no! It is not for the General Falcon to\nthink of beauty. It is my country that claims my devotion.\u201d", "words": 269}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the corner of Broadway and the Little Rialto the General became\ninvolved. The street cars bewildered him, and the fender of one upset\nhim against a pushcart laden with oranges. A cab driver missed him an\ninch with a hub, and poured barbarous execrations upon his head. He\nscrambled to the sidewalk and skipped again in terror when the whistle\nof a peanut-roaster puffed a hot scream in his ear. \u201cV\u00e1lgame Dios! What\ndevil\u2019s city is this?\u201d As the General fluttered out of the streamers of passers like a wounded\nsnipe he was marked simultaneously as game by two hunters. One was\n\u201cBully\u201d McGuire, whose system of sport required the use of a strong arm\nand the misuse of an eight-inch piece of lead pipe. The other Nimrod of\nthe asphalt was \u201cSpider\u201d Kelley, a sportsman with more refined methods. In pouncing upon their self-evident prey, Mr. Kelley was a shade the\nquicker. His elbow fended accurately the onslaught of Mr. McGuire. \u201cG\u2019wan!\u201d he commanded harshly. \u201cI saw it first.\u201d McGuire slunk away,\nawed by superior intelligence. \u201cPardon me,\u201d said Mr. Kelley, to the General, \u201cbut you got balled up in\nthe shuffle, didn\u2019t you? Let me assist you.\u201d He picked up the General\u2019s\nhat and brushed the dust from it. The ways of Mr. Kelley could not but succeed. The General, bewildered\nand dismayed by the resounding streets, welcomed his deliverer as a\ncaballero with a most disinterested heart. \u201cI have a desire,\u201d said the General, \u201cto return to the hotel of\nO\u2019Brien, in which I am stop. Caramba! se\u00f1or, there is a loudness and\nrapidness of going and coming in the city of this Nueva York.\u201d", "words": 279}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Kelley\u2019s politeness would not suffer the distinguished Colombian to\nbrave the dangers of the return unaccompanied. At the door of the Hotel\nEspa\u00f1ol they paused. A little lower down on the opposite side of the\nstreet shone the modest illuminated sign of El Refugio. Mr. Kelley, to\nwhom few streets were unfamiliar, knew the place exteriorly as a \u201cDago\njoint.\u201d All foreigners Mr. Kelley classed under the two heads of\n\u201cDagoes\u201d and Frenchmen. He proposed to the General that they repair\nthither and substantiate their acquaintance with a liquid foundation. An hour later found General Falcon and Mr. Kelley seated at a table in\nthe conspirator\u2019s corner of El Refugio. Bottles and glasses were\nbetween them. For the tenth time the General confided the secret of his\nmission to the Estados Unidos. He was here, he declared, to purchase\narms\u20142,000 stands of Winchester rifles\u2014for the Colombian\nrevolutionists. He had drafts in his pocket drawn by the Cartagena Bank\non its New York correspondent for $25,000. At other tables other\nrevolutionists were shouting their political secrets to their\nfellow-plotters; but none was as loud as the General. He pounded the\ntable; he hallooed for some wine; he roared to his friend that his\nerrand was a secret one, and not to be hinted at to a living soul. Mr.\nKelley himself was stirred to sympathetic enthusiasm. He grasped the\nGeneral\u2019s hand across the table.", "words": 234}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMonseer,\u201d he said, earnestly, \u201cI don\u2019t know where this country of\nyours is, but I\u2019m for it. I guess it must be a branch of the United\nStates, though, for the poetry guys and the schoolmarms call us\nColumbia, too, sometimes. It\u2019s a lucky thing for you that you butted\ninto me to-night. I\u2019m the only man in New York that can get this gun\ndeal through for you. The Secretary of War of the United States is me\nbest friend. He\u2019s in the city now, and I\u2019ll see him for you to-morrow.\nIn the meantime, monseer, you keep them drafts tight in your inside\npocket. I\u2019ll call for you to-morrow, and take you to see him. Say! that\nain\u2019t the District of Columbia you\u2019re talking about, is it?\u201d concluded\nMr. Kelley, with a sudden qualm. \u201cYou can\u2019t capture that with no 2,000\nguns\u2014it\u2019s been tried with more.\u201d \u201cNo, no, no!\u201d exclaimed the General. \u201cIt is the Republic of Colombia\u2014it\nis a g-r-reat republic on the top side of America of the South. Yes.\nYes.\u201d \u201cAll right,\u201d said Mr. Kelley, reassured. \u201cNow suppose we trek along\nhome and go by-by. I\u2019ll write to the Secretary to-night and make a date\nwith him. It\u2019s a ticklish job to get guns out of New York. McClusky\nhimself can\u2019t do it.\u201d They parted at the door of the Hotel Espa\u00f1ol. The General rolled his\neyes at the moon and sighed. \u201cIt is a great country, your Nueva York,\u201d he said. \u201cTruly the cars in\nthe streets devastate one, and the engine that cooks the nuts terribly\nmakes a squeak in the ear. But, ah, Se\u00f1or Kelley\u2014the se\u00f1oras with hair\nof much goldness, and admirable fatness\u2014they are magnificas! Muy\nmagnificas!\u201d Kelley went to the nearest telephone booth and called up McCrary\u2019s\ncaf\u00e9, far up on Broadway. He asked for Jimmy Dunn. \u201cIs that Jimmy Dunn?\u201d asked Kelley. \u201cYes,\u201d came the answer.", "words": 317}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou\u2019re a liar,\u201d sang back Kelley, joyfully. \u201cYou\u2019re the Secretary of\nWar. Wait there till I come up. I\u2019ve got the finest thing down here in\nthe way of a fish you ever baited for. It\u2019s a Colorado-maduro, with a\ngold band around it and free coupons enough to buy a red hall lamp and\na statuette of Psyche rubbering in the brook. I\u2019ll be up on the next\ncar.\u201d Jimmy Dunn was an A. M. of Crookdom. He was an artist in the confidence\nline. He never saw a bludgeon in his life; and he scorned knockout\ndrops. In fact, he would have set nothing before an intended victim but\nthe purest of drinks, if it had been possible to procure such a thing\nin New York. It was the ambition of \u201cSpider\u201d Kelley to elevate himself\ninto Jimmy\u2019s class. These two gentlemen held a conference that night at McCrary\u2019s. Kelley\nexplained. \u201cHe\u2019s as easy as a gumshoe. He\u2019s from the Island of Colombia, where\nthere\u2019s a strike, or a feud, or something going on, and they\u2019ve sent\nhim up here to buy 2,000 Winchesters to arbitrate the thing with. He\nshowed me two drafts for $10,000 each, and one for $5,000 on a bank\nhere. \u2019S truth, Jimmy, I felt real mad with him because he didn\u2019t have\nit in thousand-dollar bills, and hand it to me on a silver waiter. Now,\nwe\u2019ve got to wait till he goes to the bank and gets the money for us.\u201d They talked it over for two hours, and then Dunn said; \u201cBring him to\nNo. \u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Broadway, at four o\u2019clock to-morrow afternoon.\u201d In due time Kelley called at the Hotel Espa\u00f1ol for the General. He\nfound the wily warrior engaged in delectable conversation with Mrs.\nO\u2019Brien. \u201cThe Secretary of War is waitin\u2019 for us,\u201d said Kelley. The General tore himself away with an effort.", "words": 314}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAy, se\u00f1or,\u201d he said, with a sigh, \u201cduty makes a call. But, se\u00f1or, the\nse\u00f1oras of your Estados Unidos\u2014how beauties! For exemplification, take\nyou la Madame O\u2019Brien\u2014que magnifica! She is one goddess\u2014one Juno\u2014what\nyou call one ox-eyed Juno.\u201d Now Mr. Kelley was a wit; and better men have been shriveled by the\nfire of their own imagination. \u201cSure!\u201d he said with a grin; \u201cbut you mean a peroxide Juno, don\u2019t you?\u201d Mrs. O\u2019Brien heard, and lifted an auriferous head. Her businesslike eye\nrested for an instant upon the disappearing form of Mr. Kelley. Except\nin street cars one should never be unnecessarily rude to a lady. When the gallant Colombian and his escort arrived at the Broadway\naddress, they were held in an anteroom for half an hour, and then\nadmitted into a well-equipped office where a distinguished looking man,\nwith a smooth face, wrote at a desk. General Falcon was presented to\nthe Secretary of War of the United States, and his mission made known\nby his old friend, Mr. Kelley. \u201cAh\u2014Colombia!\u201d said the Secretary, significantly, when he was made to\nunderstand; \u201cI\u2019m afraid there will be a little difficulty in that case.\nThe President and I differ in our sympathies there. He prefers the\nestablished government, while I\u2014\u201d the secretary gave the General a\nmysterious but encouraging smile. \u201cYou, of course, know, General\nFalcon, that since the Tammany war, an act of Congress has been passed\nrequiring all manufactured arms and ammunition exported from this\ncountry to pass through the War Department. Now, if I can do anything\nfor you I will be glad to do so to oblige my old friend, Mr. Kelley.\nBut it must be in absolute secrecy, as the President, as I have said,\ndoes not regard favorably the efforts of your revolutionary party in\nColombia. I will have my orderly bring a list of the available arms now\nin the warehouse.\u201d", "words": 318}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The Secretary struck a bell, and an orderly with the letters A. D. T.\non his cap stepped promptly into the room. \u201cBring me Schedule B of the small arms inventory,\u201d said the Secretary. The orderly quickly returned with a printed paper. The Secretary\nstudied it closely. \u201cI find,\u201d he said, \u201cthat in Warehouse 9, of Government stores, there is\nshipment of 2,000 stands of Winchester rifles that were ordered by the\nSultan of Morocco, who forgot to send the cash with his order. Our rule\nis that legal-tender money must be paid down at the time of purchase.\nMy dear Kelley, your friend, General Falcon, shall have this lot of\narms, if he desires it, at the manufacturer\u2019s price. And you will\nforgive me, I am sure, if I curtail our interview. I am expecting the\nJapanese Minister and Charles Murphy every moment!\u201d As one result of this interview, the General was deeply grateful to his\nesteemed friend, Mr. Kelley. As another, the nimble Secretary of War\nwas extremely busy during the next two days buying empty rifle cases\nand filling them with bricks, which were then stored in a warehouse\nrented for that purpose. As still another, when the General returned to\nthe Hotel Espa\u00f1ol, Mrs. O\u2019Brien went up to him, plucked a thread from\nhis lapel, and said: \u201cSay, se\u00f1or, I don\u2019t want to \u2018butt in,\u2019 but what does that\nmonkey-faced, cat-eyed, rubber-necked tin horn tough want with you?\u201d \u201cSangre de mi vida!\u201d exclaimed the General. \u201cImpossible it is that you\nspeak of my good friend, Se\u00f1or Kelley.\u201d \u201cCome into the summer garden,\u201d said Mrs. O\u2019Brien. \u201cI want to have a\ntalk with you.\u201d Let us suppose that an hour has elapsed.", "words": 285}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAnd you say,\u201d said the General, \u201cthat for the sum of $18,000 can be\npurchased the furnishment of the house and the lease of one year with\nthis garden so lovely\u2014so resembling unto the patios of my cara\nColombia?\u201d \u201cAnd dirt cheap at that,\u201d sighed the lady. \u201cAh, Dios!\u201d breathed General Falcon. \u201cWhat to me is war and politics?\nThis spot is one paradise. My country it have other brave heroes to\ncontinue the fighting. What to me should be glory and the shooting of\nmans? Ah! no. It is here I have found one angel. Let us buy the Hotel\nEspa\u00f1ol and you shall be mine, and the money shall not be waste on\nguns.\u201d Mrs. O\u2019Brien rested her blond pompadour against the shoulder of the\nColombian patriot. \u201cOh, se\u00f1or,\u201d she sighed, happily, \u201cain\u2019t you terrible!\u201d Two days later was the time appointed for the delivery of the arms to\nthe General. The boxes of supposed rifles were stacked in the rented\nwarehouse, and the Secretary of War sat upon them, waiting for his\nfriend Kelley to fetch the victim. Mr. Kelley hurried, at the hour, to the Hotel Espa\u00f1ol. He found the\nGeneral behind the desk adding up accounts. \u201cI have decide,\u201d said the General, \u201cto buy not guns. I have to-day buy\nthe insides of this hotel, and there shall be marrying of the General\nPerrico Ximenes Villablanca Falcon with la Madame O\u2019Brien.\u201d Mr. Kelley almost strangled. \u201cSay, you old bald-headed bottle of shoe polish,\u201d he spluttered,\n\u201cyou\u2019re a swindler\u2014that\u2019s what you are! You\u2019ve bought a boarding house\nwith money belonging to your infernal country, wherever it is.\u201d", "words": 271}, {"story": 25, "title": "THE GOLD THAT GLITTERED", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAh,\u201d said the General, footing up a column, \u201cthat is what you call\npolitics. War and revolution they are not nice. Yes. It is not best\nthat one shall always follow Minerva. No. It is of quite desirable to\nkeep hotels and be with that Juno\u2014that ox-eyed Juno. Ah! what hair of\nthe gold it is that she have!\u201d Mr. Kelley choked again. \u201cAh, Senor Kelley!\u201d said the General, feelingly and finally, \u201cis it\nthat you have never eaten of the corned beef hash that Madame O\u2019Brien\nshe make?\u201d III", "words": 90}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Montague Silver, the finest street man and art grafter in the West,\nsays to me once in Little Rock: \u201cIf you ever lose your mind, Billy, and\nget too old to do honest swindling among grown men, go to New York. In\nthe West a sucker is born every minute; but in New York they appear in\nchunks of roe\u2014you can\u2019t count \u2019em!\u201d Two years afterward I found that I couldn\u2019t remember the names of the\nRussian admirals, and I noticed some gray hairs over my left ear; so I\nknew the time had arrived for me to take Silver\u2019s advice. I struck New York about noon one day, and took a walk up Broadway. And\nI run against Silver himself, all encompassed up in a spacious kind of\nhaberdashery, leaning against a hotel and rubbing the half-moons on his\nnails with a silk handkerchief. \u201cParesis or superannuated?\u201d I asks him. \u201cHello, Billy,\u201d says Silver; \u201cI\u2019m glad to see you. Yes, it seemed to me\nthat the West was accumulating a little too much wiseness. I\u2019ve been\nsaving New York for dessert. I know it\u2019s a low-down trick to take\nthings from these people. They only know this and that and pass to and\nfro and think ever and anon. I\u2019d hate for my mother to know I was\nskinning these weak-minded ones. She raised me better.\u201d \u201cIs there a crush already in the waiting rooms of the old doctor that\ndoes skin grafting?\u201d I asks. \u201cWell, no,\u201d says Silver; \u201cyou needn\u2019t back Epidermis to win to-day.\nI\u2019ve only been here a month. But I\u2019m ready to begin; and the members of\nWillie Manhattan\u2019s Sunday School class, each of whom has volunteered to\ncontribute a portion of cuticle toward this rehabilitation, may as well\nsend their photos to the _Evening Daily_.", "words": 301}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve been studying the town,\u201d says Silver, \u201cand reading the papers\nevery day, and I know it as well as the cat in the City Hall knows an\nO\u2019Sullivan. People here lie down on the floor and scream and kick when\nyou are the least bit slow about taking money from them. Come up in my\nroom and I\u2019ll tell you. We\u2019ll work the town together, Billy, for the\nsake of old times.\u201d Silver takes me up in a hotel. He has a quantity of irrelevant objects\nlying about. \u201cThere\u2019s more ways of getting money from these metropolitan hayseeds,\u201d\nsays Silver, \u201cthan there is of cooking rice in Charleston, S. C.\nThey\u2019ll bite at anything. The brains of most of \u2019em commute. The wiser\nthey are in intelligence the less perception of cognizance they have.\nWhy, didn\u2019t a man the other day sell J. P. Morgan an oil portrait of\nRockefeller, Jr., for Andrea del Sarto\u2019s celebrated painting of the\nyoung Saint John! \u201cYou see that bundle of printed stuff in the corner, Billy? That\u2019s gold\nmining stock. I started out one day to sell that, but I quit it in two\nhours. Why? Got arrested for blocking the street. People fought to buy\nit. I sold the policeman a block of it on the way to the station-house,\nand then I took it off the market. I don\u2019t want people to give me their\nmoney. I want some little consideration connected with the transaction\nto keep my pride from being hurt. I want \u2019em to guess the missing\nletter in Chic\u2014go, or draw to a pair of nines before they pay me a cent\nof money.", "words": 277}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNow there\u2019s another little scheme that worked so easy I had to quit\nit. You see that bottle of blue ink on the table? I tattooed an anchor\non the back of my hand and went to a bank and told \u2019em I was Admiral\nDewey\u2019s nephew. They offered to cash my draft on him for a thousand,\nbut I didn\u2019t know my uncle\u2019s first name. It shows, though, what an easy\ntown it is. As for burglars, they won\u2019t go in a house now unless\nthere\u2019s a hot supper ready and a few college students to wait on \u2019em.\nThey\u2019re slugging citizens all over the upper part of the city and I\nguess, taking the town from end to end, it\u2019s a plain case of assault\nand Battery.\u201d \u201cMonty,\u201d says I, when Silver had slacked, up, \u201cyou may have Manhattan\ncorrectly discriminated in your perorative, but I doubt it. I\u2019ve only\nbeen in town two hours, but it don\u2019t dawn upon me that it\u2019s ours with a\ncherry in it. There ain\u2019t enough rus in urbe about it to suit me. I\u2019d\nbe a good deal much better satisfied if the citizens had a straw or\nmore in their hair, and run more to velveteen vests and buckeye watch\ncharms. They don\u2019t look easy to me.\u201d", "words": 217}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou\u2019ve got it, Billy,\u201d says Silver. \u201cAll emigrants have it. New York\u2019s\nbigger than Little Rock or Europe, and it frightens a foreigner. You\u2019ll\nbe all right. I tell you I feel like slapping the people here because\nthey don\u2019t send me all their money in laundry baskets, with germicide\nsprinkled over it. I hate to go down on the street to get it. Who wears\nthe diamonds in this town? Why, Winnie, the Wiretapper\u2019s wife, and\nBella, the Buncosteerer\u2019s bride. New Yorkers can be worked easier than\na blue rose on a tidy. The only thing that bothers me is I know I\u2019ll\nbreak the cigars in my vest pocket when I get my clothes all full of\ntwenties.\u201d \u201cI hope you are right, Monty,\u201d says I; \u201cbut I wish all the same I had\nbeen satisfied with a small business in Little Rock. The crop of\nfarmers is never so short out there but what you can get a few of \u2019em\nto sign a petition for a new post office that you can discount for $200\nat the county bank. The people here appear to possess instincts of\nself-preservation and illiberality. I fear me that we are not cultured\nenough to tackle this game.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t worry,\u201d says Silver. \u201cI\u2019ve got this Jayville-near-Tarrytown\ncorrectly estimated as sure as North River is the Hudson and East River\nain\u2019t a river. Why, there are people living in four blocks of Broadway\nwho never saw any kind of a building except a skyscraper in their\nlives! A good, live hustling Western man ought to get conspicuous\nenough here inside of three months to incur either Jerome\u2019s clemency or\nLawson\u2019s displeasure.\u201d \u201cHyperbole aside,\u201d says I, \u201cdo you know of any immediate system of\nbuncoing the community out of a dollar or two except by applying to the\nSalvation Army or having a fit on Miss Helen Gould\u2019s doorsteps?\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDozens of \u2019em,\u201d says Silver. \u201cHow much capital have you got, Billy?\u201d \u201cA thousand,\u201d I told him. \u201cI\u2019ve got $1,200,\u201d says he. \u201cWe\u2019ll pool and do a big piece of business.\nThere\u2019s so many ways we can make a million that I don\u2019t know how to\nbegin.\u201d The next morning Silver meets me at the hotel and he is all sonorous\nand stirred with a kind of silent joy. \u201cWe\u2019re to meet J. P. Morgan this afternoon,\u201d says he. \u201cA man I know in\nthe hotel wants to introduce us. He\u2019s a friend of his. He says he likes\nto meet people from the West.\u201d \u201cThat sounds nice and plausible,\u201d says I. \u201cI\u2019d like to know Mr.\nMorgan.\u201d \u201cIt won\u2019t hurt us a bit,\u201d says Silver, \u201cto get acquainted with a few\nfinance kings. I kind of like the social way New York has with\nstrangers.\u201d The man Silver knew was named Klein. At three o\u2019clock Klein brought his\nWall Street friend to see us in Silver\u2019s room. \u201cMr. Morgan\u201d looked some\nlike his pictures, and he had a Turkish towel wrapped around his left\nfoot, and he walked with a cane. \u201cMr. Silver and Mr. Pescud,\u201d says Klein. \u201cIt sounds superfluous,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cto mention the name of the greatest financial\u2014\u201d \u201cCut it out, Klein,\u201d says Mr. Morgan. \u201cI\u2019m glad to know you gents; I\ntake great interest in the West. Klein tells me you\u2019re from Little\nRock. I think I\u2019ve a railroad or two out there somewhere. If either of\nyou guys would like to deal a hand or two of stud poker I\u2014\u201d \u201cNow, Pierpont,\u201d cuts in Klein, \u201cyou forget!\u201d \u201cExcuse me, gents!\u201d says Morgan; \u201csince I\u2019ve had the gout so bad I\nsometimes play a social game of cards at my house. Neither of you never\nknew One-eyed Peters, did you, while you was around Little Rock? He\nlived in Seattle, New Mexico.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Before we could answer, Mr. Morgan hammers on the floor with his cane\nand begins to walk up and down, swearing in a loud tone of voice. \u201cThey have been pounding your stocks to-day on the Street, Pierpont?\u201d\nasks Klein, smiling. \u201cStocks! No!\u201d roars Mr. Morgan. \u201cIt\u2019s that picture I sent an agent to\nEurope to buy. I just thought about it. He cabled me to-day that it\nain\u2019t to be found in all Italy. I\u2019d pay $50,000 to-morrow for that\npicture\u2014yes, $75,000. I give the agent a la carte in purchasing it. I\ncannot understand why the art galleries will allow a De Vinchy to\u2014\u201d \u201cWhy, Mr. Morgan,\u201d says Klein; \u201cI thought you owned all of the De\nVinchy paintings.\u201d \u201cWhat is the picture like, Mr. Morgan?\u201d asks Silver. \u201cIt must be as big\nas the side of the Flatiron Building.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m afraid your art education is on the bum, Mr. Silver,\u201d says Morgan.\n\u201cThe picture is 27 inches by 42; and it is called \u2018Love\u2019s Idle Hour.\u2019\nIt represents a number of cloak models doing the two-step on the bank\nof a purple river. The cablegram said it might have been brought to\nthis country. My collection will never be complete without that\npicture. Well, so long, gents; us financiers must keep early hours.\u201d Mr. Morgan and Klein went away together in a cab. Me and Silver talked\nabout how simple and unsuspecting great people was; and Silver said\nwhat a shame it would be to try to rob a man like Mr. Morgan; and I\nsaid I thought it would be rather imprudent, myself. Klein proposes a\nstroll after dinner; and me and him and Silver walks down toward\nSeventh Avenue to see the sights. Klein sees a pair of cuff links that\ninstigate his admiration in a pawnshop window, and we all go in while\nhe buys \u2019em.", "words": 312}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "After we got back to the hotel and Klein had gone, Silver jumps at me\nand waves his hands. \u201cDid you see it?\u201d says he. \u201cDid you see it, Billy?\u201d \u201cWhat?\u201d I asks. \u201cWhy, that picture that Morgan wants. It\u2019s hanging in that pawnshop,\nbehind the desk. I didn\u2019t say anything because Klein was there. It\u2019s\nthe article sure as you live. The girls are as natural as paint can\nmake them, all measuring 36 and 25 and 42 skirts, if they had any\nskirts, and they\u2019re doing a buck-and-wing on the bank of a river with\nthe blues. What did Mr. Morgan say he\u2019d give for it? Oh, don\u2019t make me\ntell you. They can\u2019t know what it is in that pawnshop.\u201d When the pawnshop opened the next morning me and Silver was standing\nthere as anxious as if we wanted to soak our Sunday suit to buy a\ndrink. We sauntered inside, and began to look at watch-chains. \u201cThat\u2019s a violent specimen of a chromo you\u2019ve got up there,\u201d remarked\nSilver, casual, to the pawnbroker. \u201cBut I kind of enthuse over the girl\nwith the shoulder-blades and red bunting. Would an offer of $2.25 for\nit cause you to knock over any fragile articles of your stock in\nhurrying it off the nail?\u201d The pawnbroker smiles and goes on showing us plate watch-chains. \u201cThat picture,\u201d says he, \u201cwas pledged a year ago by an Italian\ngentleman. I loaned him $500 on it. It is called \u2018Love\u2019s Idle Hour,\u2019\nand it is by Leonardo de Vinchy. Two days ago the legal time expired,\nand it became an unredeemed pledge. Here is a style of chain that is\nworn a great deal now.\u201d", "words": 283}, {"story": 26, "title": "BABES IN THE JUNGLE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the end of half an hour me and Silver paid the pawnbroker $2,000 and\nwalked out with the picture. Silver got into a cab with it and started\nfor Morgan\u2019s office. I goes to the hotel and waits for him. In two\nhours Silver comes back. \u201cDid you see Mr. Morgan?\u201d I asks. \u201cHow much did he pay you for it?\u201d Silver sits down and fools with a tassel on the table cover. \u201cI never exactly saw Mr. Morgan,\u201d he says, \u201cbecause Mr. Morgan\u2019s been\nin Europe for a month. But what\u2019s worrying me, Billy, is this: The\ndepartment stores have all got that same picture on sale, framed, for\n$3.48. And they charge $3.50 for the frame alone\u2014that\u2019s what I can\u2019t\nunderstand.\u201d IV", "words": 125}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I can see the artist bite the end of his pencil and frown when it comes\nto drawing his Easter picture; for his legitimate pictorial conceptions\nof figures pertinent to the festival are but four in number. First comes Easter, pagan goddess of spring. Here his fancy may have\nfree play. A beautiful maiden with decorative hair and the proper\nnumber of toes will fill the bill. Miss Clarice St. Vavasour, the\nwell-known model, will pose for it in the \u201cLethergogallagher,\u201d or\nwhatever it was that Trilby called it. Second\u2014the melancholy lady with upturned eyes in a framework of lilies.\nThis is magazine-covery, but reliable. Third\u2014Miss Manhattan in the Fifth Avenue Easter Sunday parade. Fourth\u2014Maggie Murphy with a new red feather in her old straw hat, happy\nand self-conscious, in the Grand Street turnout. Of course, the rabbits do not count. Nor the Easter eggs, since the\nhigher criticism has hard-boiled them. The limited field of its pictorial possibilities proves that Easter, of\nall our festival days, is the most vague and shifting in our\nconception. It belongs to all religions, although the pagans invented\nit. Going back still further to the first spring, we can see Eve\nchoosing with pride a new green leaf from the tree _ficus carica_. Now, the object of this critical and learned preamble is to set forth\nthe theorem that Easter is neither a date, a season, a festival, a\nholiday nor an occasion. What it is you shall find out if you follow in\nthe footsteps of Danny McCree.", "words": 256}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Easter Sunday dawned as it should, bright and early, in its place on\nthe calendar between Saturday and Monday. At 5.24 the sun rose, and at\n10.30 Danny followed its example. He went into the kitchen and washed\nhis face at the sink. His mother was frying bacon. She looked at his\nhard, smooth, knowing countenance as he juggled with the round cake of\nsoap, and thought of his father when she first saw him stopping a hot\ngrounder between second and third twenty-two years before on a vacant\nlot in Harlem, where the La Paloma apartment house now stands. In the\nfront room of the flat Danny\u2019s father sat by an open window smoking his\npipe, with his dishevelled gray hair tossed about by the breeze. He\nstill clung to his pipe, although his sight had been taken from him two\nyears before by a precocious blast of giant powder that went off\nwithout permission. Very few blind men care for smoking, for the reason\nthat they cannot see the smoke. Now, could you enjoy having the news\nread to you from an evening newspaper unless you could see the colors\nof the headlines? \u201c\u2019Tis Easter Day,\u201d said Mrs. McCree. \u201cScramble mine,\u201d said Danny. After breakfast he dressed himself in the Sabbath morning costume of\nthe Canal Street importing house dray chauffeur\u2014frock coat, striped\ntrousers, patent leathers, gilded trace chain across front of vest, and\nwing collar, rolled-brim derby and butterfly bow from Schonstein\u2019s\n(between Fourteenth Street and Tony\u2019s fruit stand) Saturday night sale. \u201cYou\u2019ll be goin\u2019 out this day, of course, Danny,\u201d said old man McCree,\na little wistfully. \u201c\u2019Tis a kind of holiday, they say. Well, it\u2019s fine\nspring weather. I can feel it in the air.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy should I not be going out?\u201d demanded Danny in his grumpiest chest\ntones. \u201cShould I stay in? Am I as good as a horse? One day of rest my\nteam has a week. Who earns the money for the rent and the breakfast\nyou\u2019ve just eat, I\u2019d like to know? Answer me that!\u201d \u201cAll right, lad,\u201d said the old man. \u201cI\u2019m not complainin\u2019. While me two\neyes was good there was nothin\u2019 better to my mind than a Sunday out.\nThere\u2019s a smell of turf and burnin\u2019 brush comin\u2019 in the windy. I have\nme tobaccy. A good fine day and rist to ye, lad. Times I wish your\nmother had larned to read, so I might hear the rest about the\nhippopotamus\u2014but let that be.\u201d \u201cNow, what is this foolishness he talks of hippopotamuses?\u201d asked Danny\nof his mother, as he passed through the kitchen. \u201cHave you been taking\nhim to the Zoo? And for what?\u201d \u201cI have not,\u201d said Mrs. McCree. \u201cHe sets by the windy all day. \u2019Tis\nlittle recreation a blind man among the poor gets at all. I\u2019m thinkin\u2019\nthey wander in their minds at times. One day he talks of grease without\nstoppin\u2019 for the most of an hour. I looks to see if there\u2019s lard\nburnin\u2019 in the fryin\u2019 pan. There is not. He says I do not understand.\n\u2019Tis weary days, Sundays, and holidays and all, for a blind man, Danny.\nThere was no better nor stronger than him when he had his two eyes.\n\u2019Tis a fine day, son. Injoy yeself ag\u2019inst the morning. There will be\ncold supper at six.\u201d \u201cHave you heard any talk of a hippopotamus?\u201d asked Danny of Mike, the\njanitor, as he went out the door downstairs.", "words": 292}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI have not,\u201d said Mike, pulling his shirtsleeves higher. \u201cBut \u2019tis the\nonly subject in the animal, natural and illegal lists of outrages that\nI\u2019ve not been complained to about these two days. See the landlord. Or\nelse move out if ye like. Have ye hippopotamuses in the lease? No,\nthen?\u201d \u201cIt was the old man who spoke of it,\u201d said Danny. \u201cLikely there\u2019s\nnothing in it.\u201d Danny walked up the street to the Avenue and then struck northward into\nthe heart of the district where Easter\u2014modern Easter, in new, bright\nraiment\u2014leads the pascal march. Out of towering brown churches came the\nblithe music of anthems from the choirs. The broad sidewalks were\nmoving parterres of living flowers\u2014so it seemed when your eye looked\nupon the Easter girl. Gentlemen, frock-coated, silk-hatted, gardeniaed, sustained the\nbackground of the tradition. Children carried lilies in their hands.\nThe windows of the brownstone mansions were packed with the most\nopulent creations of Flora, the sister of the Lady of the Lilies. Around a corner, white-gloved, pink-gilled and tightly buttoned, walked\nCorrigan, the cop, shield to the curb. Danny knew him. \u201cWhy, Corrigan,\u201d he asked, \u201cis Easter? I know it comes the first time\nyou\u2019re full after the moon rises on the seventeenth of March\u2014but why?\nIs it a proper and religious ceremony, or does the Governor appoint it\nout of politics?\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis an annual celebration,\u201d said Corrigan, with the judicial air of\nthe Third Deputy Police Commissioner, \u201cpeculiar to New York. It extends\nup to Harlem. Sometimes they has the reserves out at One Hundred and\nTwenty-fifth Street. In my opinion \u2019tis not political.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d said Danny. \u201cAnd say\u2014did you ever hear a man complain of\nhippopotamuses? When not specially in drink, I mean.\u201d \u201cNothing larger than sea turtles,\u201d said Corrigan, reflecting, \u201cand\nthere was wood alcohol in that.\u201d", "words": 305}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Danny wandered. The double, heavy incumbency of enjoying simultaneously\na Sunday and a festival day was his. The sorrows of the hand-toiler fit him easily. They are worn so often\nthat they hang with the picturesque lines of the best tailor-made\ngarments. That is why well-fed artists of pencil and pen find in the\ngriefs of the common people their most striking models. But when the\nPhilistine would disport himself, the grimness of Melpomene, herself,\nattends upon his capers. Therefore, Danny set his jaw hard at Easter,\nand took his pleasure sadly. The family entrance of Dugan\u2019s caf\u00e9 was feasible; so Danny yielded to\nthe vernal season as far as a glass of bock. Seated in a dark,\nlinoleumed, humid back room, his heart and mind still groped after the\nmysterious meaning of the springtime jubilee. \u201cSay, Tim,\u201d he said to the waiter, \u201cwhy do they have Easter?\u201d \u201cSkiddoo!\u201d said Tim, closing a sophisticated eye. \u201cIs that a new one?\nAll right. Tony Pastor\u2019s for you last night, I guess. I give it up.\nWhat\u2019s the answer\u2014two apples or a yard and a half?\u201d From Dugan\u2019s Danny turned back eastward. The April sun seemed to stir\nin him a vague feeling that he could not construe. He made a wrong\ndiagnosis and decided that it was Katy Conlon. A block from her house on Avenue A he met her going to church. They\npumped hands on the corner. \u201cGee! but you look dumpish and dressed up,\u201d said Katy. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong?\nCome away with me to church and be cheerful.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s doing at church?\u201d asked Danny. \u201cWhy, it\u2019s Easter Sunday. Silly! I waited till after eleven expectin\u2019\nyou might come around to go.\u201d \u201cWhat does this Easter stand for, Katy,\u201d asked Danny gloomily. \u201cNobody\nseems to know.\u201d", "words": 296}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNobody as blind as you,\u201d said Katy with spirit. \u201cYou haven\u2019t even\nlooked at my new hat. And skirt. Why, it\u2019s when all the girls put on\nnew spring clothes. Silly! Are you coming to church with me?\u201d \u201cI will,\u201d said Danny. \u201cIf this Easter is pulled off there, they ought\nto be able to give some excuse for it. Not that the hat ain\u2019t a beauty.\nThe green roses are great.\u201d At church the preacher did some expounding with no pounding. He spoke\nrapidly, for he was in a hurry to get home to his early Sabbath dinner;\nbut he knew his business. There was one word that controlled his\ntheme\u2014resurrection. Not a new creation; but a new life arising out of\nthe old. The congregation had heard it often before. But there was a\nwonderful hat, a combination of sweet peas and lavender, in the sixth\npew from the pulpit. It attracted much attention. After church Danny lingered on a corner while Katy waited, with pique\nin her sky-blue eyes. \u201cAre you coming along to the house?\u201d she asked. \u201cBut don\u2019t mind me.\nI\u2019ll get there all right. You seem to be studyin\u2019 a lot about\nsomething. All right. Will I see you at any time specially, Mr.\nMcCree?\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll be around Wednesday night as usual,\u201d said Danny, turning and\ncrossing the street.", "words": 225}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Katy walked away with the green roses dangling indignantly. Danny\nstopped two blocks away. He stood still with his hands in his pockets,\nat the curb on the corner. His face was that of a graven image. Deep in\nhis soul something stirred so small, so fine, so keen and leavening\nthat his hard fibres did not recognize it. It was something more tender\nthan the April day, more subtle than the call of the senses, purer and\ndeeper-rooted than the love of woman\u2014for had he not turned away from\ngreen roses and eyes that had kept him chained for a year? And Danny\ndid not know what it was. The preacher, who was in a hurry to go to his\ndinner, had told him, but Danny had had no libretto with which to\nfollow the drowsy intonation. But the preacher spoke the truth. Suddenly Danny slapped his leg and gave forth a hoarse yell of delight. \u201cHippopotamus!\u201d he shouted to an elevated road pillar. \u201cWell, how is\nthat for a bum guess? Why, blast my skylights! I know what he was\ndriving at now. \u201cHippopotamus! Wouldn\u2019t that send you to the Bronx! It\u2019s been a year\nsince he heard it; and he didn\u2019t miss it so very far. We quit at 469 B.\nC., and this comes next. Well, a wooden man wouldn\u2019t have guessed what\nhe was trying to get out of him.\u201d Danny caught a crosstown car and went up to the rear flat that his\nlabor supported. Old man McCree was still sitting by the window. His extinct pipe lay on\nthe sill. \u201cWill that be you, lad?\u201d he asked. Danny flared into the rage of a strong man who is surprised at the\noutset of committing a good deed. \u201cWho pays the rent and buys the food that is eaten in this house?\u201d he\nsnapped, viciously. \u201cHave I no right to come in?\u201d", "words": 318}, {"story": 27, "title": "THE DAY RESURGENT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYe\u2019re a faithful lad,\u201d said old man McCree, with a sigh. \u201cIs it\nevening yet?\u201d Danny reached up on a shelf and took down a thick book labeled in gilt\nletters, \u201cThe History of Greece.\u201d Dust was on it half an inch thick. He\nlaid it on the table and found a place in it marked by a strip of\npaper. And then he gave a short roar at the top of his voice, and said: \u201cWas it the hippopotamus you wanted to be read to about then?\u201d \u201cDid I hear ye open the book?\u201d said old man McCree. \u201cMany and weary be\nthe months since my lad has read it to me. I dinno; but I took a great\nlikings to them Greeks. Ye left off at a place. \u2019Tis a fine day\noutside, lad. Be out and take rest from your work. I have gotten used\nto me chair by the windy and me pipe.\u201d \u201cPel-Peloponnesus was the place where we left off, and not\nhippopotamus,\u201d said Danny. \u201cThe war began there. It kept something\ndoing for thirty years. The headlines says that a guy named Philip of\nMacedon, in 338 B. C., got to be boss of Greece by getting the decision\nat the battle of Cher-Cheronoea. I\u2019ll read it.\u201d With his hand to his ear, rapt in the Peloponnesian War, old man McCree\nsat for an hour, listening. Then he got up and felt his way to the door of the kitchen. Mrs. McCree\nwas slicing cold meat. She looked up. Tears were running from old man\nMcCree\u2019s eyes. \u201cDo you hear our lad readin\u2019 to me?\u201d he said. \u201cThere is none finer in\nthe land. My two eyes have come back to me again.\u201d After supper he said to Danny: \u201c\u2019Tis a happy day, this Easter. And now\nye will be off to see Katy in the evening. Well enough.\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The ranks of the Bed Line moved closer together; for it was cold. They\nwere alluvial deposit of the stream of life lodged in the delta of\nFifth Avenue and Broadway. The Bed Liners stamped their freezing feet,\nlooked at the empty benches in Madison Square whence Jack Frost had\nevicted them, and muttered to one another in a confusion of tongues.\nThe Flatiron Building, with its impious, cloud-piercing architecture\nlooming mistily above them on the opposite delta, might well have stood\nfor the tower of Babel, whence these polyglot idlers had been called by\nthe winged walking delegate of the Lord. Standing on a pine box a head higher than his flock of goats, the\nPreacher exhorted whatever transient and shifting audience the north\nwind doled out to him. It was a slave market. Fifteen cents bought you\na man. You deeded him to Morpheus; and the recording angel gave you\ncredit. The preacher was incredibly earnest and unwearied. He had looked over\nthe list of things one may do for one\u2019s fellow man, and had assumed for\nhimself the task of putting to bed all who might apply at his soap box\non the nights of Wednesday and Sunday. That left but five nights for\nother philanthropists to handle; and had they done their part as well,\nthis wicked city might have become a vast Arcadian dormitory where all\nmight snooze and snore the happy hours away, letting problem plays and\nthe rent man and business go to the deuce.", "words": 252}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The hour of eight was but a little while past; sightseers in a small,\ndark mass of pay ore were gathered in the shadow of General Worth\u2019s\nmonument. Now and then, shyly, ostentatiously, carelessly, or with\nconscientious exactness one would step forward and bestow upon the\nPreacher small bills or silver. Then a lieutenant of Scandinavian\ncoloring and enthusiasm would march away to a lodging house with a\nsquad of the redeemed. All the while the Preacher exhorted the crowd in\nterms beautifully devoid of eloquence\u2014splendid with the deadly,\naccusative monotony of truth. Before the picture of the Bed Liners\nfades you must hear one phrase of the Preacher\u2019s\u2014the one that formed\nhis theme that night. It is worthy of being stenciled on all the white\nribbons in the world. _\u201cNo man ever learned to be a drunkard on five-cent whisky.\u201d_ Think of it, tippler. It covers the ground from the sprouting rye to\nthe Potter\u2019s Field. A clean-profiled, erect young man in the rear rank of the bedless\nemulated the terrapin, drawing his head far down into the shell of his\ncoat collar. It was a well-cut tweed coat; and the trousers still\nshowed signs of having flattened themselves beneath the compelling\ngoose. But, conscientiously, I must warn the milliner\u2019s apprentice who\nreads this, expecting a Reginald Montressor in straits, to peruse no\nfurther. The young man was no other than Thomas McQuade, ex-coachman,\ndischarged for drunkenness one month before, and now reduced to the\ngrimy ranks of the one-night bed seekers.", "words": 253}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "If you live in smaller New York you must know the Van Smuythe family\ncarriage, drawn by the two 1,500-pound, 100 to 1-shot bays. The\ncarriage is shaped like a bath-tub. In each end of it reclines an old\nlady Van Smuythe holding a black sunshade the size of a New Year\u2019s Eve\nfeather tickler. Before his downfall Thomas McQuade drove the Van\nSmuythe bays and was himself driven by Annie, the Van Smuythe lady\u2019s\nmaid. But it is one of the saddest things about romance that a tight\nshoe or an empty commissary or an aching tooth will make a temporary\nheretic of any Cupid-worshiper. And Thomas\u2019s physical troubles were not\nfew. Therefore, his soul was less vexed with thoughts of his lost\nlady\u2019s maid than it was by the fancied presence of certain non-existent\nthings that his racked nerves almost convinced him were flying,\ndancing, crawling, and wriggling on the asphalt and in the air above\nand around the dismal campus of the Bed Line army. Nearly four weeks of\nstraight whisky and a diet limited to crackers, bologna, and pickles\noften guarantees a psycho-zoological sequel. Thus desperate, freezing,\nangry, beset by phantoms as he was, he felt the need of human sympathy\nand intercourse. The Bed Liner standing at his right was a young man of about his own\nage, shabby but neat. \u201cWhat\u2019s the diagnosis of your case, Freddy?\u201d asked Thomas, with the\nfreemasonic familiarity of the damned\u2014\u201cBooze? That\u2019s mine. You don\u2019t\nlook like a panhandler. Neither am I. A month ago I was pushing the\nlines over the backs of the finest team of Percheron buffaloes that\never made their mile down Fifth Avenue in 2.85. And look at me now!\nSay; how do you come to be at this bed bargain-counter rummage sale.\u201d The other young man seemed to welcome the advances of the airy\nex-coachman.", "words": 312}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNo,\u201d said he, \u201cmine isn\u2019t exactly a case of drink. Unless we allow\nthat Cupid is a bartender. I married unwisely, according to the opinion\nof my unforgiving relatives. I\u2019ve been out of work for a year because I\ndon\u2019t know how to work; and I\u2019ve been sick in Bellevue and other\nhospitals for months. My wife and kid had to go back to her mother. I\nwas turned out of the hospital yesterday. And I haven\u2019t a cent. That\u2019s\nmy tale of woe.\u201d \u201cTough luck,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cA man alone can pull through all right. But\nI hate to see the women and kids get the worst of it.\u201d Just then there hummed up Fifth Avenue a motor car so splendid, so red,\nso smoothly running, so craftily demolishing the speed regulations that\nit drew the attention even of the listless Bed Liners. Suspended and\npinioned on its left side was an extra tire. When opposite the unfortunate company the fastenings of this tire\nbecame loosed. It fell to the asphalt, bounded and rolled rapidly in\nthe wake of the flying car. Thomas McQuade, scenting an opportunity, darted from his place among\nthe Preacher\u2019s goats. In thirty seconds he had caught the rolling tire,\nswung it over his shoulder, and was trotting smartly after the car. On\nboth sides of the avenue people were shouting, whistling, and waving\ncanes at the red car, pointing to the enterprising Thomas coming up\nwith the lost tire. One dollar, Thomas had estimated, was the smallest guerdon that so\ngrand an automobilist could offer for the service he had rendered, and\nsave his pride. Two blocks away the car had stopped. There was a little, brown, muffled\nchauffeur driving, and an imposing gentleman wearing a magnificent\nsealskin coat and a silk hat on a rear seat.", "words": 303}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Thomas proffered the captured tire with his best ex-coachman manner and\na look in the brighter of his reddened eyes that was meant to be\nsuggestive to the extent of a silver coin or two and receptive up to\nhigher denominations. But the look was not so construed. The sealskinned gentleman received\nthe tire, placed it inside the car, gazed intently at the ex-coachman,\nand muttered to himself inscrutable words. \u201cStrange\u2014strange!\u201d said he. \u201cOnce or twice even I, myself, have fancied\nthat the Chaldean Chiroscope has availed. Could it be possible?\u201d Then he addressed less mysterious words to the waiting and hopeful\nThomas. \u201cSir, I thank you for your kind rescue of my tire. And I would ask you,\nif I may, a question. Do you know the family of Van Smuythes living in\nWashington Square North?\u201d \u201cOughtn\u2019t I to?\u201d replied Thomas. \u201cI lived there. Wish I did yet.\u201d The sealskinned gentleman opened a door of the car. \u201cStep in please,\u201d he said. \u201cYou have been expected.\u201d Thomas McQuade obeyed with surprise but without hesitation. A seat in a\nmotor car seemed better than standing room in the Bed Line. But after\nthe lap-robe had been tucked about him and the auto had sped on its\ncourse, the peculiarity of the invitation lingered in his mind. \u201cMaybe the guy hasn\u2019t got any change,\u201d was his diagnosis. \u201cLots of\nthese swell rounders don\u2019t lug about any ready money. Guess he\u2019ll dump\nme out when he gets to some joint where he can get cash on his mug.\nAnyhow, it\u2019s a cinch that I\u2019ve got that open-air bed convention beat to\na finish.\u201d Submerged in his greatcoat, the mysterious automobilist seemed,\nhimself, to marvel at the surprises of life. \u201cWonderful! amazing!\nstrange!\u201d he repeated to himself constantly. When the car had well entered the crosstown Seventies it swung eastward\na half block and stopped before a row of high-stooped, brownstone-front\nhouses.", "words": 319}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cBe kind enough to enter my house with me,\u201d said the sealskinned\ngentleman when they had alighted. \u201cHe\u2019s going to dig up, sure,\u201d\nreflected Thomas, following him inside. There was a dim light in the hall. His host conducted him through a\ndoor to the left, closing it after him and leaving them in absolute\ndarkness. Suddenly a luminous globe, strangely decorated, shone faintly\nin the centre of an immense room that seemed to Thomas more splendidly\nappointed than any he had ever seen on the stage or read of in fairy\ntales. The walls were hidden by gorgeous red hangings embroidered with\nfantastic gold figures. At the rear end of the room were draped\nporti\u00e8res of dull gold spangled with silver crescents and stars. The\nfurniture was of the costliest and rarest styles. The ex-coachman\u2019s\nfeet sank into rugs as fleecy and deep as snowdrifts. There were three\nor four oddly shaped stands or tables covered with black velvet\ndrapery. Thomas McQuade took in the splendors of this palatial apartment with\none eye. With the other he looked for his imposing conductor\u2014to find\nthat he had disappeared. \u201cB\u2019gee!\u201d muttered Thomas, \u201cthis listens like a spook shop. Shouldn\u2019t\nwonder if it ain\u2019t one of these Moravian Nights\u2019 adventures that you\nread about. Wonder what became of the furry guy.\u201d Suddenly a stuffed owl that stood on an ebony perch near the\nilluminated globe slowly raised his wings and emitted from his eyes a\nbrilliant electric glow.", "words": 246}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "With a fright-born imprecation, Thomas seized a bronze statuette of\nHebe from a cabinet near by and hurled it with all his might at the\nterrifying and impossible fowl. The owl and his perch went over with a\ncrash. With the sound there was a click, and the room was flooded with\nlight from a dozen frosted globes along the walls and ceiling. The gold\nporti\u00e8res parted and closed, and the mysterious automobilist entered\nthe room. He was tall and wore evening dress of perfect cut and\naccurate taste. A Vandyke beard of glossy, golden brown, rather long\nand wavy hair, smoothly parted, and large, magnetic, orientally occult\neyes gave him a most impressive and striking appearance. If you can\nconceive a Russian Grand Duke in a Rajah\u2019s throne-room advancing to\ngreet a visiting Emperor, you will gather something of the majesty of\nhis manner. But Thomas McQuade was too near his _d t\u2019s_ to be mindful\nof his _p\u2019s_ and _q\u2019s_. When he viewed this silken, polished, and\nsomewhat terrifying host he thought vaguely of dentists. \u201cSay, doc,\u201d said he resentfully, \u201cthat\u2019s a hot bird you keep on tap. I\nhope I didn\u2019t break anything. But I\u2019ve nearly got the williwalloos, and\nwhen he threw them 32-candle-power lamps of his on me, I took a\nsnap-shot at him with that little brass Flatiron Girl that stood on the\nsideboard.\u201d \u201cThat is merely a mechanical toy,\u201d said the gentleman with a wave of\nhis hand. \u201cMay I ask you to be seated while I explain why I brought you\nto my house. Perhaps you would not understand nor be in sympathy with\nthe psychological prompting that caused me to do so. So I will come to\nthe point at once by venturing to refer to your admission that you know\nthe Van Smuythe family, of Washington Square North.\u201d", "words": 308}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAny silver missing?\u201d asked Thomas tartly. \u201cAny joolry displaced? Of\ncourse I know \u2019em. Any of the old ladies\u2019 sunshades disappeared? Well,\nI know \u2019em. And then what?\u201d The Grand Duke rubbed his white hands together softly. \u201cWonderful!\u201d he murmured. \u201cWonderful! Shall I come to believe in the\nChaldean Chiroscope myself? Let me assure you,\u201d he continued, \u201cthat\nthere is nothing for you to fear. Instead, I think I can promise you\nthat very good fortune awaits you. We will see.\u201d \u201cDo they want me back?\u201d asked Thomas, with something of his old\nprofessional pride in his voice. \u201cI\u2019ll promise to cut out the booze and\ndo the right thing if they\u2019ll try me again. But how did you get wise,\ndoc? B\u2019gee, it\u2019s the swellest employment agency I was ever in, with its\nflashlight owls and so forth.\u201d With an indulgent smile the gracious host begged to be excused for two\nminutes. He went out to the sidewalk and gave an order to the\nchauffeur, who still waited with the car. Returning to the mysterious\napartment, he sat by his guest and began to entertain him so well by\nhis witty and genial converse that the poor Bed Liner almost forgot the\ncold streets from which he had been so recently and so singularly\nrescued. A servant brought some tender cold fowl and tea biscuits and a\nglass of miraculous wine; and Thomas felt the glamour of Arabia envelop\nhim. Thus half an hour sped quickly; and then the honk of the returned\nmotor car at the door suddenly drew the Grand Duke to his feet, with\nanother soft petition for a brief absence.", "words": 275}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Two women, well muffled against the cold, were admitted at the front\ndoor and suavely conducted by the master of the house down the hall\nthrough another door to the left and into a smaller room, which was\nscreened and segregated from the larger front room by heavy, double\nporti\u00e8res. Here the furnishings were even more elegant and exquisitely\ntasteful than in the other. On a gold-inlaid rosewood table were\nscattered sheets of white paper and a queer, triangular instrument or\ntoy, apparently of gold, standing on little wheels. The taller woman threw back her black veil and loosened her cloak. She\nwas fifty, with a wrinkled and sad face. The other, young and plump,\ntook a chair a little distance away and to the rear as a servant or an\nattendant might have done. \u201cYou sent for me, Professor Cherubusco,\u201d said the elder woman, wearily.\n\u201cI hope you have something more definite than usual to say. I\u2019ve about\nlost the little faith I had in your art. I would not have responded to\nyour call this evening if my sister had not insisted upon it.\u201d \u201cMadam,\u201d said the professor, with his princeliest smile, \u201cthe true Art\ncannot fail. To find the true psychic and potential branch sometimes\nrequires time. We have not succeeded, I admit, with the cards, the\ncrystal, the stars, the magic formul\u00e6 of Zarazin, nor the Oracle of Po.\nBut we have at last discovered the true psychic route. The Chaldean\nChiroscope has been successful in our search.\u201d The professor\u2019s voice had a ring that seemed to proclaim his belief in\nhis own words. The elderly lady looked at him with a little more\ninterest. \u201cWhy, there was no sense in those words that it wrote with my hands on\nit,\u201d she said. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cThe words were these,\u201d said Professor Cherubusco, rising to his full\nmagnificent height: \u201c_\u2018By the fifth wheel of the chariot he shall\ncome.\u2019_\u201d \u201cI haven\u2019t seen many chariots,\u201d said the lady, \u201cbut I never saw one\nwith five wheels.\u201d \u201cProgress,\u201d said the professor\u2014\u201cprogress in science and mechanics has\naccomplished it\u2014though, to be exact, we may speak of it only as an\nextra tire. Progress in occult art has advanced in proportion. Madam, I\nrepeat that the Chaldean Chiroscope has succeeded. I can not only\nanswer the question that you have propounded, but I can produce before\nyour eyes the proof thereof.\u201d And now the lady was disturbed both in her disbelief and in her poise. \u201cO professor!\u201d she cried anxiously\u2014\u201cWhen?\u2014where? Has he been found? Do\nnot keep me in suspense.\u201d \u201cI beg you will excuse me for a very few minutes,\u201d said Professor\nCherubusco, \u201cand I think I can demonstrate to you the efficacy of the\ntrue Art.\u201d Thomas was contentedly munching the last crumbs of the bread and fowl\nwhen the enchanter appeared suddenly at his side. \u201cAre you willing to return to your old home if you are assured of a\nwelcome and restoration to favor?\u201d he asked, with his courteous, royal\nsmile. \u201cDo I look bughouse?\u201d answered Thomas. \u201cEnough of the footback life for\nme. But will they have me again? The old lady is as fixed in her ways\nas a nut on a new axle.\u201d \u201cMy dear young man,\u201d said the other, \u201cshe has been searching for you\neverywhere.\u201d \u201cGreat!\u201d said Thomas. \u201cI\u2019m on the job. That team of dropsical\ndromedaries they call horses is a handicap for a first-class coachman\nlike myself; but I\u2019ll take the job back, sure, doc. They\u2019re good people\nto be with.\u201d And now a change came o\u2019er the suave countenance of the Caliph of\nBagdad. He looked keenly and suspiciously at the ex-coachman.", "words": 314}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMay I ask what your name is?\u201d he said shortly. \u201cYou\u2019ve been looking for me,\u201d said Thomas, \u201cand don\u2019t know my name?\nYou\u2019re a funny kind of sleuth. You must be one of the Central Office\ngumshoers. I\u2019m Thomas McQuade, of course; and I\u2019ve been chauffeur of\nthe Van Smuythe elephant team for a year. They fired me a month ago\nfor\u2014well, doc, you saw what I did to your old owl. I went broke on\nbooze, and when I saw the tire drop off your whiz wagon I was standing\nin that squad of hoboes at the Worth monument waiting for a free bed.\nNow, what\u2019s the prize for the best answer to all this?\u201d To his intense surprise Thomas felt himself lifted by the collar and\ndragged, without a word of explanation, to the front door. This was\nopened, and he was kicked forcibly down the steps with one heavy,\ndisillusionizing, humiliating impact of the stupendous Arabian\u2019s shoe. As soon as the ex-coachman had recovered his feet and his wits he\nhastened as fast as he could eastward toward Broadway. \u201cCrazy guy,\u201d was his estimate of the mysterious automobilist. \u201cJust\nwanted to have some fun kiddin\u2019, I guess. He might have dug up a\ndollar, anyhow. Now I\u2019ve got to hurry up and get back to that gang of\nbum bed hunters before they all get preached to sleep.\u201d When Thomas reached the end of his two-mile walk he found the ranks of\nthe homeless reduced to a squad of perhaps eight or ten. He took the\nproper place of a newcomer at the left end of the rear rank. In a file\nin front of him was the young man who had spoken to him of hospitals\nand something of a wife and child.", "words": 297}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSorry to see you back again,\u201d said the young man, turning to speak to\nhim. \u201cI hoped you had struck something better than this.\u201d \u201cMe?\u201d said Thomas. \u201cOh, I just took a run around the block to keep\nwarm! I see the public ain\u2019t lending to the Lord very fast to-night.\u201d \u201cIn this kind of weather,\u201d said the young man, \u201ccharity avails itself\nof the proverb, and both begins and ends at home.\u201d And the Preacher and his vehement lieutenant struck up a last hymn of\npetition to Providence and man. Those of the Bed Liners whose windpipes\nstill registered above 32 degrees hopelessly and tunelessly joined in. In the middle of the second verse Thomas saw a sturdy girl with\nwind-tossed drapery battling against the breeze and coming straight\ntoward him from the opposite sidewalk. \u201cAnnie!\u201d he yelled, and ran\ntoward her. \u201cYou fool, you fool!\u201d she cried, weeping and laughing, and hanging upon\nhis neck, \u201cwhy did you do it?\u201d \u201cThe Stuff,\u201d explained Thomas briefly. \u201cYou know. But subsequently nit.\nNot a drop.\u201d He led her to the curb. \u201cHow did you happen to see me?\u201d \u201cI came to find you,\u201d said Annie, holding tight to his sleeve. \u201cOh, you\nbig fool! Professor Cherubusco told us that we might find you here.\u201d \u201cProfessor Ch\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Don\u2019t know the guy. What saloon does he work in?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s a clairvoyant, Thomas; the greatest in the world. He found you\nwith the Chaldean telescope, he said.\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s a liar,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cI never had it. He never saw me have\nanybody\u2019s telescope.\u201d \u201cAnd he said you came in a chariot with five wheels or something.\u201d \u201cAnnie,\u201d said Thoms solicitously, \u201cyou\u2019re giving me the wheels now. If\nI had a chariot I\u2019d have gone to bed in it long ago. And without any\nsinging and preaching for a nightcap, either.\u201d", "words": 307}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cListen, you big fool. The Missis says she\u2019ll take you back. I begged\nher to. But you must behave. And you can go up to the house to-night;\nand your old room over the stable is ready.\u201d \u201cGreat!\u201d said Thomas earnestly. \u201cYou are It, Annie. But when did these\nstunts happen?\u201d \u201cTo-night at Professor Cherubusco\u2019s. He sent his automobile for the\nMissis, and she took me along. I\u2019ve been there with her before.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s the professor\u2019s line?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s a clearvoyant and a witch. The Missis consults him. He knows\neverything. But he hasn\u2019t done the Missis any good yet, though she\u2019s\npaid him hundreds of dollars. But he told us that the stars told him we\ncould find you here.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s the old lady want this cherry-buster to do?\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s a family secret,\u201d said Annie. \u201cAnd now you\u2019ve asked enough\nquestions. Come on home, you big fool.\u201d They had moved but a little way up the street when Thomas stopped. \u201cGot any dough with you, Annie?\u201d he asked. Annie looked at him sharply. \u201cOh, I know what that look means,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cYou\u2019re wrong. Not\nanother drop. But there\u2019s a guy that was standing next to me in the bed\nline over there that\u2019s in bad shape. He\u2019s the right kind, and he\u2019s got\nwives or kids or something, and he\u2019s on the sick list. No booze. If you\ncould dig up half a dollar for him so he could get a decent bed I\u2019d\nlike it.\u201d Annie\u2019s fingers began to wiggle in her purse. \u201cSure, I\u2019ve got money,\u201d said she. \u201cLots of it. Twelve dollars.\u201d And\nthen she added, with woman\u2019s ineradicable suspicion of vicarious\nbenevolence: \u201cBring him here and let me see him first.\u201d Thomas went on his mission. The wan Bed Liner came readily enough. As\nthe two drew near, Annie looked up from her purse and screamed: \u201cMr. Walter\u2014 Oh\u2014Mr. Walter!", "words": 315}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIs that you, Annie?\u201d said the young man meekly. \u201cOh, Mr. Walter!\u2014and the Missis hunting high and low for you!\u201d \u201cDoes mother want to see me?\u201d he asked, with a flush coming out on his\npale cheek. \u201cShe\u2019s been hunting for you high and low. Sure, she wants to see you.\nShe wants you to come home. She\u2019s tried police and morgues and lawyers\nand advertising and detectives and rewards and everything. And then she\ntook up clearvoyants. You\u2019ll go right home, won\u2019t you, Mr. Walter?\u201d \u201cGladly, if she wants me,\u201d said the young man. \u201cThree years is a long\ntime. I suppose I\u2019ll have to walk up, though, unless the street cars\nare giving free rides. I used to walk and beat that old plug team of\nbays we used to drive to the carriage. Have they got them yet?\u201d \u201cThey have,\u201d said Thomas, feelingly. \u201cAnd they\u2019ll have \u2019em ten years\nfrom now. The life of the royal elephantibus truckhorseibus is one\nhundred and forty-nine years. I\u2019m the coachman. Just got my\nreappointment five minutes ago. Let\u2019s all ride up in a surface car\u2014that\nis\u2014er\u2014if Annie will pay the fares.\u201d On the Broadway car Annie handed each one of the prodigals a nickel to\npay the conductor. \u201cSeems to me you are mighty reckless the way you throw large sums of\nmoney around,\u201d said Thomas sarcastically. \u201cIn that purse,\u201d said Annie decidedly, \u201cis exactly $11.85. I shall take\nevery cent of it to-morrow and give it to professor Cherubusco, the\ngreatest man in the world.\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d said Thomas, \u201cI guess he must be a pretty fly guy to pipe off\nthings the way he does. I\u2019m glad his spooks told him where you could\nfind me. If you\u2019ll give me his address, some day I\u2019ll go up there,\nmyself, and shake his hand.\u201d", "words": 304}, {"story": 28, "title": "THE FIFTH WHEEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Presently Thomas moved tentatively in his seat, and thoughtfully felt\nan abrasion or two on his knees and his elbows. \u201cSay, Annie,\u201d said he confidentially, maybe it\u2019s one of the last dreams\nof booze, but I\u2019ve a kind of a recollection of riding in an automobile\nwith a swell guy that took me to a house full of eagles and arc lights.\nHe fed me on biscuits and hot air, and then kicked me down the front\nsteps. If it was the _d t\u2019s_, why am I so sore?\u201d \u201cShut up, you fool,\u201d said Annie. \u201cIf I could find that funny guy\u2019s house,\u201d said Thomas, in conclusion,\n\u201cI\u2019d go up there some day and punch his nose for him.\u201d VI", "words": 120}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The other day a poet friend of mine, who has lived in close communion\nwith nature all his life, wrote a poem and took it to an editor. It was a living pastoral, full of the genuine breath of the fields, the\nsong of birds, and the pleasant chatter of trickling streams. When the poet called again to see about it, with hopes of a beefsteak\ndinner in his heart, it was handed back to him with the comment: \u201cToo artificial.\u201d Several of us met over spaghetti and Dutchess County chianti, and\nswallowed indignation with slippery forkfuls. And there we dug a pit for the editor. With us was Conant, a\nwell-arrived writer of fiction\u2014a man who had trod on asphalt all his\nlife, and who had never looked upon bucolic scenes except with\nsensations of disgust from the windows of express trains. Conant wrote a poem and called it \u201cThe Doe and the Brook.\u201d It was a\nfine specimen of the kind of work you would expect from a poet who had\nstrayed with Amaryllis only as far as the florist\u2019s windows, and whose\nsole ornithological discussion had been carried on with a waiter.\nConant signed this poem, and we sent it to the same editor. But this has very little to do with the story. Just as the editor was reading the first line of the poem, on the next\nmorning, a being stumbled off the West Shore ferryboat, and loped\nslowly up Forty-second Street.", "words": 247}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The invader was a young man with light blue eyes, a hanging lip and\nhair the exact color of the little orphan\u2019s (afterward discovered to be\nthe earl\u2019s daughter) in one of Mr. Blaney\u2019s plays. His trousers were\ncorduroy, his coat short-sleeved, with buttons in the middle of his\nback. One bootleg was outside the corduroys. You looked expectantly,\nthough in vain, at his straw hat for ear holes, its shape inaugurating\nthe suspicion that it had been ravaged from a former equine possessor.\nIn his hand was a valise\u2014description of it is an impossible task; a\nBoston man would not have carried his lunch and law books to his office\nin it. And above one ear, in his hair, was a wisp of hay\u2014the rustic\u2019s\nletter of credit, his badge of innocence, the last clinging touch of\nthe Garden of Eden lingering to shame the gold-brick men. Knowingly, smilingly, the city crowds passed him by. They saw the raw\nstranger stand in the gutter and stretch his neck at the tall\nbuildings. At this they ceased to smile, and even to look at him. It\nhad been done so often. A few glanced at the antique valise to see what\nConey \u201cattraction\u201d or brand of chewing gum he might be thus dinning\ninto his memory. But for the most part he was ignored. Even the\nnewsboys looked bored when he scampered like a circus clown out of the\nway of cabs and street cars. At Eighth Avenue stood \u201cBunco Harry,\u201d with his dyed mustache and shiny,\ngood-natured eyes. Harry was too good an artist not to be pained at the\nsight of an actor overdoing his part. He edged up to the countryman,\nwho had stopped to open his mouth at a jewelry store window, and shook\nhis head.", "words": 300}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cToo thick, pal,\u201d he said, critically\u2014\u201ctoo thick by a couple of inches.\nI don\u2019t know what your lay is; but you\u2019ve got the properties too thick.\nThat hay, now\u2014why, they don\u2019t even allow that on Proctor\u2019s circuit any\nmore.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t understand you, mister,\u201d said the green one. \u201cI\u2019m not lookin\u2019\nfor any circus. I\u2019ve just run down from Ulster County to look at the\ntown, bein\u2019 that the hayin\u2019s over with. Gosh! but it\u2019s a whopper. I\nthought Poughkeepsie was some punkins; but this here town is five times\nas big.\u201d \u201cOh, well,\u201d said \u201cBunco Harry,\u201d raising his eyebrows, \u201cI didn\u2019t mean to\nbutt in. You don\u2019t have to tell. I thought you ought to tone down a\nlittle, so I tried to put you wise. Wish you success at your graft,\nwhatever it is. Come and have a drink, anyhow.\u201d \u201cI wouldn\u2019t mind having a glass of lager beer,\u201d acknowledged the other. They went to a caf\u00e9 frequented by men with smooth faces and shifty\neyes, and sat at their drinks. \u201cI\u2019m glad I come across you, mister,\u201d said Haylocks. \u201cHow\u2019d you like to\nplay a game or two of seven-up? I\u2019ve got the keerds.\u201d He fished them out of Noah\u2019s valise\u2014a rare, inimitable deck, greasy\nwith bacon suppers and grimy with the soil of cornfields. \u201cBunco Harry\u201d laughed loud and briefly. \u201cNot for me, sport,\u201d he said, firmly. \u201cI don\u2019t go against that make-up\nof yours for a cent. But I still say you\u2019ve overdone it. The Reubs\nhaven\u2019t dressed like that since \u201979. I doubt if you could work Brooklyn\nfor a key-winding watch with that layout.\u201d \u201cOh, you needn\u2019t think I ain\u2019t got the money,\u201d boasted Haylocks. He\ndrew forth a tightly rolled mass of bills as large as a teacup, and\nlaid it on the table.", "words": 302}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGot that for my share of grandmother\u2019s farm,\u201d he announced. \u201cThere\u2019s\n$950 in that roll. Thought I\u2019d come to the city and look around for a\nlikely business to go into.\u201d \u201cBunco Harry\u201d took up the roll of money and looked at it with almost\nrespect in his smiling eyes. \u201cI\u2019ve seen worse,\u201d he said, critically. \u201cBut you\u2019ll never do it in them\nclothes. You want to get light tan shoes and a black suit and a straw\nhat with a colored band, and talk a good deal about Pittsburg and\nfreight differentials, and drink sherry for breakfast in order to work\noff phony stuff like that.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s his line?\u201d asked two or three shifty-eyed men of \u201cBunco Harry\u201d\nafter Haylocks had gathered up his impugned money and departed. \u201cThe queer, I guess,\u201d said Harry. \u201cOr else he\u2019s one of Jerome\u2019s men. Or\nsome guy with a new graft. He\u2019s too much hayseed. Maybe that his\u2014I\nwonder now\u2014oh, no, it couldn\u2019t have been real money.\u201d Haylocks wandered on. Thirst probably assailed him again, for he dived\ninto a dark groggery on a side street and bought beer. At first sight\nof him their eyes brightened; but when his insistent and exaggerated\nrusticity became apparent their expressions changed to wary suspicion. Haylocks swung his valise across the bar. \u201cKeep that a while for me, mister,\u201d he said, chewing at the end of a\nvirulent claybank cigar. \u201cI\u2019ll be back after I knock around a spell.\nAnd keep your eye on it, for there\u2019s $950 inside of it, though maybe\nyou wouldn\u2019t think so to look at me.\u201d Somewhere outside a phonograph struck up a band piece, and Haylocks was\noff for it, his coat-tail buttons flopping in the middle of his back. \u201cDivvy, Mike,\u201d said the men hanging upon the bar, winking openly at one\nanother.", "words": 305}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cHonest, now,\u201d said the bartender, kicking the valise to one side. \u201cYou\ndon\u2019t think I\u2019d fall to that, do you? Anybody can see he ain\u2019t no jay.\nOne of McAdoo\u2019s come-on squad, I guess. He\u2019s a shine if he made himself\nup. There ain\u2019t no parts of the country now where they dress like that\nsince they run rural free delivery to Providence, Rhode Island. If he\u2019s\ngot nine-fifty in that valise it\u2019s a ninety-eight cent Waterbury that\u2019s\nstopped at ten minutes to ten.\u201d When Haylocks had exhausted the resources of Mr. Edison to amuse he\nreturned for his valise. And then down Broadway he gallivanted, culling\nthe sights with his eager blue eyes. But still and evermore Broadway\nrejected him with curt glances and sardonic smiles. He was the oldest\nof the \u201cgags\u201d that the city must endure. He was so flagrantly\nimpossible, so ultra rustic, so exaggerated beyond the most freakish\nproducts of the barnyard, the hayfield and the vaudeville stage, that\nhe excited only weariness and suspicion. And the wisp of hay in his\nhair was so genuine, so fresh and redolent of the meadows, so\nclamorously rural that even a shell-game man would have put up his peas\nand folded his table at the sight of it. Haylocks seated himself upon a flight of stone steps and once more\nexhumed his roll of yellow-backs from the valise. The outer one, a\ntwenty, he shucked off and beckoned to a newsboy. \u201cSon,\u201d said he, \u201crun somewhere and get this changed for me. I\u2019m mighty\nnigh out of chicken feed. I guess you\u2019ll get a nickel if you\u2019ll hurry\nup.\u201d A hurt look appeared through the dirt on the newsy\u2019s face. \u201cAw, watchert\u2019ink! G\u2019wan and get yer funny bill changed yerself. Dey\nain\u2019t no farm clothes yer got on. G\u2019wan wit yer stage money.\u201d", "words": 306}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "On a corner lounged a keen-eyed steerer for a gambling-house. He saw\nHaylocks, and his expression suddenly grew cold and virtuous. \u201cMister,\u201d said the rural one. \u201cI\u2019ve heard of places in this here town\nwhere a fellow could have a good game of old sledge or peg a card at\nkeno. I got $950 in this valise, and I come down from old Ulster to see\nthe sights. Know where a fellow could get action on about $9 or $10?\nI\u2019m goin\u2019 to have some sport, and then maybe I\u2019ll buy out a business of\nsome kind.\u201d The steerer looked pained, and investigated a white speck on his left\nforefinger nail. \u201cCheese it, old man,\u201d he murmured, reproachfully. \u201cThe Central Office\nmust be bughouse to send you out looking like such a gillie. You\ncouldn\u2019t get within two blocks of a sidewalk crap game in them Tony\nPastor props. The recent Mr. Scotty from Death Valley has got you beat\na crosstown block in the way of Elizabethan scenery and mechanical\naccessories. Let it be skiddoo for yours. Nay, I know of no gilded\nhalls where one may bet a patrol wagon on the ace.\u201d Rebuffed once again by the great city that is so swift to detect\nartificialities, Haylocks sat upon the curb and presented his thoughts\nto hold a conference. \u201cIt\u2019s my clothes,\u201d said he; \u201cdurned if it ain\u2019t. They think I\u2019m a\nhayseed and won\u2019t have nothin\u2019 to do with me. Nobody never made fun of\nthis hat in Ulster County. I guess if you want folks to notice you in\nNew York you must dress up like they do.\u201d", "words": 273}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "So Haylocks went shopping in the bazaars where men spake through their\nnoses and rubbed their hands and ran the tape line ecstatically over\nthe bulge in his inside pocket where reposed a red nubbin of corn with\nan even number of rows. And messengers bearing parcels and boxes\nstreamed to his hotel on Broadway within the lights of Long Acre. At 9 o\u2019clock in the evening one descended to the sidewalk whom Ulster\nCounty would have foresworn. Bright tan were his shoes; his hat the\nlatest block. His light gray trousers were deeply creased; a gay blue\nsilk handkerchief flapped from the breast pocket of his elegant English\nwalking coat. His collar might have graced a laundry window; his blond\nhair was trimmed close; the wisp of hay was gone. For an instant he stood, resplendent, with the leisurely air of a\nboulevardier concocting in his mind the route for his evening\npleasures. And then he turned down the gay, bright street with the easy\nand graceful tread of a millionaire. But in the instant that he had paused the wisest and keenest eyes in\nthe city had enveloped him in their field of vision. A stout man with\ngray eyes picked two of his friends with a lift of his eyebrows from\nthe row of loungers in front of the hotel. \u201cThe juiciest jay I\u2019ve seen in six months,\u201d said the man with gray\neyes. \u201cCome along.\u201d It was half-past eleven when a man galloped into the West Forty-seventh\nStreet Police Station with the story of his wrongs. \u201cNine hundred and fifty dollars,\u201d he gasped, \u201call my share of\ngrandmother\u2019s farm.\u201d The desk sergeant wrung from him the name Jabez Bulltongue, of Locust\nValley farm, Ulster County, and then began to take descriptions of the\nstrong-arm gentlemen.", "words": 299}, {"story": 29, "title": "THE POET AND THE PEASANT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When Conant went to see the editor about the fate of his poem, he was\nreceived over the head of the office boy into the inner office that is\ndecorated with the statuettes by Rodin and J. G. Brown. \u201cWhen I read the first line of \u2018The Doe and the Brook,\u2019\u201d said the\neditor, \u201cI knew it to be the work of one whose life has been heart to\nheart with Nature. The finished art of the line did not blind me to\nthat fact. To use a somewhat homely comparison, it was as if a wild,\nfree child of the woods and fields were to don the garb of fashion and\nwalk down Broadway. Beneath the apparel the man would show.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d said Conant. \u201cI suppose the check will be round on Thursday,\nas usual.\u201d The morals of this story have somehow gotten mixed. You can take your\nchoice of \u201cStay on the Farm\u201d or \u201cDon\u2019t Write Poetry.\u201d VII", "words": 160}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mysteries follow one another so closely in a great city that the\nreading public and the friends of Johnny Bellchambers have ceased to\nmarvel at his sudden and unexplained disappearance nearly a year ago.\nThis particular mystery has now been cleared up, but the solution is so\nstrange and incredible to the mind of the average man that only a\nselect few who were in close touch with Bellchambers will give it full\ncredence. Johnny Bellchambers, as is well known, belonged to the intrinsically\ninner circle of the _\u00e9lite_. Without any of the ostentation of the\nfashionable ones who endeavor to attract notice by eccentric display of\nwealth and show he still was _au fait_ in everything that gave deserved\nlustre to his high position in the ranks of society. Especially did he shine in the matter of dress. In this he was the\ndespair of imitators. Always correct, exquisitely groomed, and\npossessed of an unlimited wardrobe, he was conceded to be the\nbest-dressed man in New York, and, therefore, in America. There was not\na tailor in Gotham who would not have deemed it a precious boon to have\nbeen granted the privilege of making Bellchambers\u2019 clothes without a\ncent of pay. As he wore them, they would have been a priceless\nadvertisement. Trousers were his especial passion. Here nothing but\nperfection would he notice. He would have worn a patch as quickly as he\nwould have overlooked a wrinkle. He kept a man in his apartments always\nbusy pressing his ample supply. His friends said that three hours was\nthe limit of time that he would wear these garments without exchanging.", "words": 273}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Bellchambers disappeared very suddenly. For three days his absence\nbrought no alarm to his friends, and then they began to operate the\nusual methods of inquiry. All of them failed. He had left absolutely no\ntrace behind. Then the search for a motive was instituted, but none was\nfound. He had no enemies, he had no debts, there was no woman. There\nwere several thousand dollars in his bank to his credit. He had never\nshowed any tendency toward mental eccentricity; in fact, he was of a\nparticularly calm and well-balanced temperament. Every means of tracing\nthe vanished man was made use of, but without avail. It was one of\nthose cases\u2014more numerous in late years\u2014where men seem to have gone out\nlike the flame of a candle, leaving not even a trail of smoke as a\nwitness. In May, Tom Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam, two of Bellchambers\u2019 old\nfriends, went for a little run on the other side. While pottering\naround in Italy and Switzerland, they happened, one day, to hear of a\nmonastery in the Swiss Alps that promised something outside of the\nordinary tourist-beguiling attractions. The monastery was almost\ninaccessible to the average sightseer, being on an extremely rugged and\nprecipitous spur of the mountains. The attractions it possessed but did\nnot advertise were, first, an exclusive and divine cordial made by the\nmonks that was said to far surpass benedictine and chartreuse. Next a\nhuge brass bell so purely and accurately cast that it had not ceased\nsounding since it was first rung three hundred years ago. Finally, it\nwas asserted that no Englishman had ever set foot within its walls.\nEyres and Gilliam decided that these three reports called for\ninvestigation.", "words": 286}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It took them two days with the aid of two guides to reach the monastery\nof St. Gondrau. It stood upon a frozen, wind-swept crag with the snow\npiled about it in treacherous, drifting masses. They were hospitably\nreceived by the brothers whose duty it was to entertain the infrequent\nguest. They drank of the precious cordial, finding it rarely potent and\nreviving. They listened to the great, ever-echoing bell, and learned\nthat they were pioneer travelers, in those gray stone walls, over the\nEnglishman whose restless feet have trodden nearly every corner of the\nearth. At three o\u2019clock on the afternoon they arrived, the two young\nGothamites stood with good Brother Cristofer in the great, cold hallway\nof the monastery to watch the monks march past on their way to the\nrefectory. They came slowly, pacing by twos, with their heads bowed,\ntreading noiselessly with sandaled feet upon the rough stone flags. As\nthe procession slowly filed past, Eyres suddenly gripped Gilliam by the\narm. \u201cLook,\u201d he whispered, eagerly, \u201cat the one just opposite you\nnow\u2014the one on this side, with his hand at his waist\u2014if that isn\u2019t\nJohnny Bellchambers then I never saw him!\u201d Gilliam saw and recognized the lost glass of fashion. \u201cWhat the deuce,\u201d said he, wonderingly, \u201cis old Bell doing here? Tommy,\nit surely can\u2019t be he! Never heard of Bell having a turn for the\nreligious. Fact is, I\u2019ve heard him say things when a four-in-hand\ndidn\u2019t seem to tie up just right that would bring him up for\ncourt-martial before any church.\u201d", "words": 259}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt\u2019s Bell, without a doubt,\u201d said Eyres, firmly, \u201cor I\u2019m pretty badly\nin need of an oculist. But think of Johnny Bellchambers, the Royal High\nChancellor of swell togs and the Mahatma of pink teas, up here in cold\nstorage doing penance in a snuff-colored bathrobe! I can\u2019t get it\nstraight in my mind. Let\u2019s ask the jolly old boy that\u2019s doing the\nhonors.\u201d Brother Cristofer was appealed to for information. By that time the\nmonks had passed into the refectory. He could not tell to which one\nthey referred. Bellchambers? Ah, the brothers of St. Gondrau abandoned\ntheir worldly names when they took the vows. Did the gentlemen wish to\nspeak with one of the brothers? If they would come to the refectory and\nindicate the one they wished to see, the reverend abbot in authority\nwould, doubtless, permit it. Eyres and Gilliam went into the dining hall and pointed out to Brother\nCristofer the man they had seen. Yes, it was Johnny Bellchambers. They\nsaw his face plainly now, as he sat among the dingy brothers, never\nlooking up, eating broth from a coarse, brown bowl.", "words": 188}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Permission to speak to one of the brothers was granted to the two\ntravelers by the abbot, and they waited in a reception room for him to\ncome. When he did come, treading softly in his sandals, both Eyres and\nGilliam looked at him in perplexity and astonishment. It was Johnny\nBellchambers, but he had a different look. Upon his smooth-shaven face\nwas an expression of ineffable peace, of rapturous attainment, of\nperfect and complete happiness. His form was proudly erect, his eyes\nshone with a serene and gracious light. He was as neat and well-groomed\nas in the old New York days, but how differently was he clad! Now he\nseemed clothed in but a single garment\u2014a long robe of rough brown\ncloth, gathered by a cord at the waist, and falling in straight, loose\nfolds nearly to his feet. He shook hands with his visitors with his old\nease and grace of manner. If there was any embarrassment in that\nmeeting it was not manifested by Johnny Bellchambers. The room had no\nseats; they stood to converse. \u201cGlad to see you, old man,\u201d said Eyres, somewhat awkwardly. \u201cWasn\u2019t\nexpecting to find you up here. Not a bad idea though, after all.\nSociety\u2019s an awful sham. Must be a relief to shake the giddy whirl and\nretire to\u2014er\u2014contemplation and\u2014er\u2014prayer and hymns, and those things. \u201cOh, cut that, Tommy,\u201d said Bellchambers, cheerfully. \u201cDon\u2019t be afraid\nthat I\u2019ll pass around the plate. I go through these thing-um-bobs with\nthe rest of these old boys because they are the rules. I\u2019m Brother\nAmbrose here, you know. I\u2019m given just ten minutes to talk to you\nfellows. That\u2019s rather a new design in waistcoats you have on, isn\u2019t\nit, Gilliam? Are they wearing those things on Broadway now?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s the same old Johnny,\u201d said Gilliam, joyfully. \u201cWhat the devil\u2014I\nmean why\u2014 Oh, confound it! what did you do it for, old man?\u201d", "words": 319}, {"story": 30, "title": "THE ROBE OF PEACE", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cPeel the bathrobe,\u201d pleaded Eyres, almost tearfully, \u201cand go back with\nus. The old crowd\u2019ll go wild to see you. This isn\u2019t in your line, Bell.\nI know half a dozen girls that wore the willow on the quiet when you\nshook us in that unaccountable way. Hand in your resignation, or get a\ndispensation, or whatever you have to do to get a release from this ice\nfactory. You\u2019ll get catarrh here, Johnny\u2014and\u2014 My God! you haven\u2019t any\nsocks on!\u201d Bellchambers looked down at his sandaled feet and smiled. \u201cYou fellows don\u2019t understand,\u201d he said, soothingly. \u201cIt\u2019s nice of you\nto want me to go back, but the old life will never know me again. I\nhave reached here the goal of all my ambitions. I am entirely happy and\ncontented. Here I shall remain for the remainder of my days. You see\nthis robe that I wear?\u201d Bellchambers caressingly touched the\nstraight-hanging garment: \u201cAt last I have found something that will not\nbag at the knees. I have attained\u2014\u201d At that moment the deep boom of the great brass bell reverberated\nthrough the monastery. It must have been a summons to immediate\ndevotions, for Brother Ambrose bowed his head, turned and left the\nchamber without another word. A slight wave of his hand as he passed\nthrough the stone doorway seemed to say a farewell to his old friends.\nThey left the monastery without seeing him again. And this is the story that Tommy Eyres and Lancelot Gilliam brought\nback with them from their latest European tour. VIII", "words": 260}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The other day I ran across my old friend Ferguson Pogue. Pogue is a\nconscientious grafter of the highest type. His headquarters is the\nWestern Hemisphere, and his line of business is anything from\nspeculating in town lots on the Great Staked Plains to selling wooden\ntoys in Connecticut, made by hydraulic pressure from nutmegs ground to\na pulp. Now and then when Pogue has made a good haul he comes to New York for a\nrest. He says the jug of wine and loaf of bread and Thou in the\nwilderness business is about as much rest and pleasure to him as\nsliding down the bumps at Coney would be to President Taft. \u201cGive me,\u201d\nsays Pogue, \u201ca big city for my vacation. Especially New York. I\u2019m not\nmuch fond of New Yorkers, and Manhattan is about the only place on the\nglobe where I don\u2019t find any.\u201d While in the metropolis Pogue can always be found at one of two places.\nOne is a little second-hand book-shop on Fourth Avenue, where he reads\nbooks about his hobbies, Mahometanism and taxidermy. I found him at the\nother\u2014his hall bedroom in Eighteenth Street\u2014where he sat in his\nstocking feet trying to pluck \u201cThe Banks of the Wabash\u201d out of a small\nzither. Four years he has practised this tune without arriving near\nenough to cast the longest trout line to the water\u2019s edge. On the\ndresser lay a blued-steel Colt\u2019s forty-five and a tight roll of tens\nand twenties large enough around to belong to the spring\nrattlesnake-story class. A chambermaid with a room-cleaning air\nfluttered nearby in the hall, unable to enter or to flee, scandalized\nby the stocking feet, aghast at the Colt\u2019s, yet powerless, with her\nmetropolitan instincts, to remove herself beyond the magic influence of\nthe yellow-hued roll.", "words": 302}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I sat on his trunk while Ferguson Pogue talked. No one could be franker\nor more candid in his conversation. Beside his expression the cry of\nHenry James for lacteal nourishment at the age of one month would have\nseemed like a Chaldean cryptogram. He told me stories of his profession\nwith pride, for he considered it an art. And I was curious enough to\nask him whether he had known any women who followed it. \u201cLadies?\u201d said Pogue, with Western chivalry. \u201cWell, not to any great\nextent. They don\u2019t amount to much in special lines of graft, because\nthey\u2019re all so busy in general lines. What? Why, they have to. Who\u2019s\ngot the money in the world? The men. Did you ever know a man to give a\nwoman a dollar without any consideration? A man will shell out his dust\nto another man free and easy and gratis. But if he drops a penny in one\nof the machines run by the Madam Eve\u2019s Daughters\u2019 Amalgamated\nAssociation and the pineapple chewing gum don\u2019t fall out when he pulls\nthe lever you can hear him kick to the superintendent four blocks away.\nMan is the hardest proposition a woman has to go up against. He\u2019s the\nlow-grade one, and she has to work overtime to make him pay. Two times\nout of five she\u2019s salted. She can\u2019t put in crushers and costly\nmachinery. He\u2019d notice \u2019em and be onto the game. They have to pan out\nwhat they get, and it hurts their tender hands. Some of \u2019em are natural\nsluice troughs and can carry out $1,000 to the ton. The dry-eyed ones\nhave to depend on signed letters, false hair, sympathy, the kangaroo\nwalk, cowhide whips, ability to cook, sentimental juries,\nconversational powers, silk underskirts, ancestry, rouge, anonymous\nletters, violet sachet powders, witnesses, revolvers, pneumatic forms,\ncarbolic acid, moonlight, cold cream and the evening newspapers.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou are outrageous, Ferg,\u201d I said. \u201cSurely there is none of this\n\u2018graft\u2019 as you call it, in a perfect and harmonious matrimonial union!\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d said Pogue, \u201cnothing that would justify you every time in\ncalling Police Headquarters and ordering out the reserves and a\nvaudeville manager on a dead run. But it\u2019s this way: Suppose you\u2019re a\nFifth Avenue millionaire, soaring high, on the right side of copper and\ncappers. \u201cYou come home at night and bring a $9,000,000 diamond brooch to the\nlady who\u2019s staked you for a claim. You hand it over. She says, \u2018Oh,\nGeorge!\u2019 and looks to see if it\u2019s backed. She comes up and kisses you.\nYou\u2019ve waited for it. You get it. All right. It\u2019s graft. \u201cBut I\u2019m telling you about Artemisia Blye. She was from Kansas and she\nsuggested corn in all of its phases. Her hair was as yellow as the\nsilk; her form was as tall and graceful as a stalk in the low grounds\nduring a wet summer; her eyes were as big and startling as bunions, and\ngreen was her favorite color. \u201cOn my last trip into the cool recesses of your sequestered city I met\na human named Vaucross. He was worth\u2014that is, he had a million. He told\nme he was in business on the street. \u2018A sidewalk merchant?\u2019 says I,\nsarcastic. \u2018Exactly,\u2019 says he, \u2018Senior partner of a paving concern.\u2019 \u201cI kind of took to him. For this reason, I met him on Broadway one\nnight when I was out of heart, luck, tobacco and place. He was all silk\nhat, diamonds and front. He was all front. If you had gone behind him\nyou would have only looked yourself in the face. I looked like a cross\nbetween Count Tolstoy and a June lobster. I was out of luck. I had\u2014but\nlet me lay my eyes on that dealer again.", "words": 316}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cVaucross stopped and talked to me a few minutes and then he took me to\na high-toned restaurant to eat dinner. There was music, and then some\nBeethoven, and Bordelaise sauce, and cussing in French, and\nfrangipangi, and some hauteur and cigarettes. When I am flush I know\nthem places. \u201cI declare, I must have looked as bad as a magazine artist sitting\nthere without any money and my hair all rumpled like I was booked to\nread a chapter from \u2018Elsie\u2019s School Days\u2019 at a Brooklyn Bohemian\nsmoker. But Vaucross treated me like a bear hunter\u2019s guide. He wasn\u2019t\nafraid of hurting the waiter\u2019s feelings. \u201c\u2018Mr. Pogue,\u2019 he explains to me, \u2018I am using you.\u2019 \u201c\u2018Go on,\u2019 says I; \u2018I hope you don\u2019t wake up.\u2019 \u201cAnd then he tells me, you know, the kind of man he was. He was a New\nYorker. His whole ambition was to be noticed. He wanted to be\nconspicuous. He wanted people to point him out and bow to him, and tell\nothers who he was. He said it had been the desire of his life always.\nHe didn\u2019t have but a million, so he couldn\u2019t attract attention by\nspending money. He said he tried to get into public notice one time by\nplanting a little public square on the east side with garlic for free\nuse of the poor; but Carnegie heard of it, and covered it over at once\nwith a library in the Gaelic language. Three times he had jumped in the\nway of automobiles; but the only result was five broken ribs and a\nnotice in the papers that an unknown man, five feet ten, with four\namalgam-filled teeth, supposed to be the last of the famous Red Leary\ngang had been run over. \u201c\u2018Ever try the reporters,\u2019 I asked him. \u201c\u2018Last month,\u2019 says Mr. Vaucross, \u2018my expenditure for lunches to\nreporters was $124.80.\u2019", "words": 315}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2018Get anything out of that?\u2019 I asks. \u201c\u2018That reminds me,\u2019 says he; \u2018add $8.50 for pepsin. Yes, I got\nindigestion.\u2019 \u201c\u2018How am I supposed to push along your scramble for prominence?\u2019 I\ninquires. \u2018Contrast?\u2019 \u201c\u2018Something of that sort to-night,\u2019 says Vaucross. \u2018It grieves me; but\nI am forced to resort to eccentricity.\u2019 And here he drops his napkin in\nhis soup and rises up and bows to a gent who is devastating a potato\nunder a palm across the room. \u201c\u2018The Police Commissioner,\u2019 says my climber, gratified. \u2018Friend\u2019, says\nI, in a hurry, \u2018have ambitions but don\u2019t kick a rung out of your\nladder. When you use me as a stepping stone to salute the police you\nspoil my appetite on the grounds that I may be degraded and\nincriminated. Be thoughtful.\u2019 \u201cAt the Quaker City squab en casserole the idea about Artemisia Blye\ncomes to me. \u201c\u2018Suppose I can manage to get you in the papers,\u2019 says I\u2014\u2018a column or\ntwo every day in all of \u2019em and your picture in most of \u2019em for a week.\nHow much would it be worth to you?\u2019 \u201c\u2018Ten thousand dollars,\u2019 says Vaucross, warm in a minute. \u2018But no\nmurder,\u2019 says he; \u2018and I won\u2019t wear pink pants at a cotillon.\u2019 \u201c\u2018I wouldn\u2019t ask you to,\u2019 says I. \u2018This is honorable, stylish and\nuneffeminate. Tell the waiter to bring a demi tasse and some other\nbeans, and I will disclose to you the opus moderandi.\u2019", "words": 243}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWe closed the deal an hour later in the rococo rouge et noise room. I\ntelegraphed that night to Miss Artemisia in Salina. She took a couple\nof photographs and an autograph letter to an elder in the Fourth\nPresbyterian Church in the morning, and got some transportation and\n$80. She stopped in Topeka long enough to trade a flashlight interior\nand a valentine to the vice-president of a trust company for a mileage\nbook and a package of five-dollar notes with $250 scrawled on the band. \u201cThe fifth evening after she got my wire she was waiting, all\nd\u00e9collet\u00e9e and dressed up, for me and Vaucross to take her to dinner in\none of these New York feminine apartment houses where a man can\u2019t get\nin unless he plays bezique and smokes depilatory powder cigarettes. \u201c\u2018She\u2019s a stunner,\u2019 says Vaucross when he saw her. \u2018They\u2019ll give her a\ntwo-column cut sure.\u2019 \u201cThis was the scheme the three of us concocted. It was business\nstraight through. Vaucross was to rush Miss Blye with all the style and\ndisplay and emotion he could for a month. Of course, that amounted to\nnothing as far as his ambitions were concerned. The sight of a man in a\nwhite tie and patent leather pumps pouring greenbacks through the large\nend of a cornucopia to purchase nutriment and heartsease for tall,\nwillowy blondes in New York is as common a sight as blue turtles in\ndelirium tremens. But he was to write her love letters\u2014the worst kind\nof love letters, such as your wife publishes after you are dead\u2014every\nday. At the end of the month he was to drop her, and she would bring\nsuit for $100,000 for breach of promise. \u201cMiss Artemisia was to get $10,000. If she won the suit that was all;\nand if she lost she was to get it anyhow. There was a signed contract\nto that effect.", "words": 320}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSometimes they had me out with \u2019em, but not often. I couldn\u2019t keep up\nto their style. She used to pull out his notes and criticize them like\nbills of lading. \u201c\u2018Say, you!\u2019 she\u2019d say. \u2018What do you call this\u2014letter to a Hardware\nMerchant from His Nephew on Learning that His Aunt Has Nettlerash? You\nEastern duffers know as much about writing love letters as a Kansas\ngrasshopper does about tugboats. \u201cMy dear Miss Blye!\u201d\u2014wouldn\u2019t that put\npink icing and a little red sugar bird on your bridal cake? How long do\nyou expect to hold an audience in a court-room with that kind of stuff?\nYou want to get down to business, and call me \u201cTweedlums Babe\u201d and\n\u201cHoneysuckle,\u201d and sign yourself \u201cMama\u2019s Own Big Bad Puggy Wuggy Boy\u201d\nif you want any limelight to concentrate upon your sparse gray hairs.\nGet sappy.\u2019 \u201cAfter that Vaucross dipped his pen in the indelible tabasco. His notes\nread like something or other in the original. I could see a jury\nsitting up, and women tearing one another\u2019s hats to hear \u2019em read. And\nI could see piling up for Mr. Vaucross as much notoriousness as\nArchbishop Cranmer or the Brooklyn Bridge or cheese-on-salad ever\nenjoyed. He seemed mighty pleased at the prospects. \u201cThey agreed on a night; and I stood on Fifth Avenue outside a solemn\nrestaurant and watched \u2019em. A process-server walked in and handed\nVaucross the papers at his table. Everybody looked at \u2019em; and he\nlooked as proud as Cicero. I went back to my room and lit a five-cent\ncigar, for I knew the $10,000 was as good as ours.", "words": 273}, {"story": 31, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE GRAFT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAbout two hours later somebody knocked at my door. There stood\nVaucross and Miss Artemisia, and she was clinging\u2014yes, sir, clinging\u2014to\nhis arm. And they tells me they\u2019d been out and got married. And they\narticulated some trivial cadences about love and such. And they laid\ndown a bundle on the table and said \u2018Good night\u2019 and left. \u201cAnd that\u2019s why I say,\u201d concluded Ferguson Pogue, \u201cthat a woman is too\nbusy occupied with her natural vocation and instinct of graft such as\nis given her for self-preservation and amusement to make any great\nsuccess in special lines.\u201d \u201cWhat was in the bundle that they left?\u201d I asked, with my usual\ncuriosity. \u201cWhy,\u201d said Ferguson, \u201cthere was a scalper\u2019s railroad ticket as far as\nKansas City and two pairs of Mr. Vaucross\u2019s old pants.\u201d IX", "words": 135}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When the inauguration was accomplished\u2014the proceedings were made smooth\nby the presence of the Rough Riders\u2014it is well known that a herd of\nthose competent and loyal ex-warriors paid a visit to the big city. The\nnewspaper reporters dug out of their trunks the old broad-brimmed hats\nand leather belts that they wear to North Beach fish fries, and mixed\nwith the visitors. No damage was done beyond the employment of the\nwonderful plural \u201ctenderfeet\u201d in each of the scribe\u2019s stories. The\nWesterners mildly contemplated the skyscrapers as high as the third\nstory, yawned at Broadway, hunched down in the big chairs in hotel\ncorridors, and altogether looked as bored and dejected as a member of\nYe Ancient and Honorable Artillery separated during a sham battle from\nhis valet. Out of this sightseeing delegations of good King Teddy\u2019s Gentlemen of\nthe Royal Bear-hounds dropped one Greenbrier Nye, of Pin Feather, Ariz. The daily cyclone of Sixth Avenue\u2019s rush hour swept him away from the\ncompany of his pardners true. The dust from a thousand rustling skirts\nfilled his eyes. The mighty roar of trains rushing across the sky\ndeafened him. The lightning-flash of twice ten hundred beaming eyes\nconfused his vision. The storm was so sudden and tremendous that Greenbrier\u2019s first impulse\nwas to lie down and grab a root. And then he remembered that the\ndisturbance was human, and not elemental; and he backed out of it with\na grin into a doorway.", "words": 244}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The reporters had written that but for the wide-brimmed hats the West\nwas not visible upon these gauchos of the North. Heaven sharpen their\neyes! The suit of black diagonal, wrinkled in impossible places; the\nbright blue four-in-hand, factory tied; the low, turned-down collar,\npattern of the days of Seymour and Blair, white glazed as the letters\non the window of the open-day-and-night-except-Sunday restaurants; the\nout-curve at the knees from the saddle grip; the peculiar spread of the\nhalf-closed right thumb and fingers from the stiff hold upon the\ncircling lasso; the deeply absorbed weather tan that the hottest sun of\nCape May can never equal; the seldom-winking blue eyes that\nunconsciously divided the rushing crowds into fours, as though they\nwere being counted out of a corral; the segregated loneliness and\nsolemnity of expression, as of an Emperor or of one whose horizons have\nnot intruded upon him nearer than a day\u2019s ride\u2014these brands of the West\nwere set upon Greenbrier Nye. Oh, yes; he wore a broad-brimmed hat,\ngentle reader\u2014just like those the Madison Square Post Office mail\ncarriers wear when they go up to Bronx Park on Sunday afternoons. Suddenly Greenbrier Nye jumped into the drifting herd of metropolitan\ncattle, seized upon a man, dragged him out of the stream and gave him a\nbuffet upon his collar-bone that sent him reeling against a wall. The victim recovered his hat, with the angry look of a New Yorker who\nhas suffered an outrage and intends to write to the Trib. about it. But\nhe looked at his assailant, and knew that the blow was in consideration\nof love and affection after the manner of the West, which greets its\nfriends with contumely and uproar and pounding fists, and receives its\nenemies in decorum and order, such as the judicious placing of the\nwelcoming bullet demands.", "words": 308}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGod in the mountains!\u201d cried Greenbrier, holding fast to the foreleg\nof his cull. \u201cCan this be Longhorn Merritt?\u201d The other man was\u2014oh, look on Broadway any day for the pattern\u2014business\nman\u2014latest rolled-brim derby\u2014good barber, business, digestion and\ntailor. \u201cGreenbrier Nye!\u201d he exclaimed, grasping the hand that had smitten him.\n\u201cMy dear fellow! So glad to see you! How did you come to\u2014oh, to be\nsure\u2014the inaugural ceremonies\u2014I remember you joined the Rough Riders.\nYou must come and have luncheon with me, of course.\u201d Greenbrier pinned him sadly but firmly to the wall with a hand the\nsize, shape and color of a McClellan saddle. \u201cLongy,\u201d he said, in a melancholy voice that disturbed traffic, \u201cwhat\nhave they been doing to you? You act just like a citizen. They done\nmade you into an inmate of the city directory. You never made no such\nJohnny Branch execration of yourself as that out on the Gila. \u2018Come and\nhave lunching with me!\u2019 You never defined grub by any such terms of\nreproach in them days.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ve been living in New York seven years,\u201d said Merritt. \u201cIt\u2019s been\neight since we punched cows together in Old Man Garcia\u2019s outfit. Well,\nlet\u2019s go to a caf\u00e9, anyhow. It sounds good to hear it called \u2018grub?\u2019\nagain.\u201d They picked their way through the crowd to a hotel, and drifted, as by\na natural law, to the bar. \u201cSpeak up,\u201d invited Greenbrier. \u201cA dry Martini,\u201d said Merritt. \u201cOh, Lord!\u201d cried Greenbrier; \u201cand yet me and you once saw the same\npink Gila monsters crawling up the walls of the same hotel in Ca\u00f1on\nDiablo! A dry\u2014but let that pass. Whiskey straight\u2014and they\u2019re on you.\u201d Merritt smiled, and paid.", "words": 283}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "They lunched in a small extension of the dining room that connected\nwith the caf\u00e9. Merritt dexterously diverted his friend\u2019s choice, that\nhovered over ham and eggs, to a pur\u00e9e of celery, a salmon cutlet, a\npartridge pie and a desirable salad. \u201cOn the day,\u201d said Greenbrier, grieved and thunderous, \u201cwhen I can\u2019t\nhold but one drink before eating when I meet a friend I ain\u2019t seen in\neight years at a 2 by 4 table in a thirty-cent town at 1 o\u2019clock on the\nthird day of the week, I want nine broncos to kick me forty times over\na 640-acre section of land. Get them statistics?\u201d \u201cRight, old man,\u201d laughed Merritt. \u201cWaiter, bring an absinthe frapp\u00e9\nand\u2014what\u2019s yours, Greenbrier?\u201d \u201cWhiskey straight,\u201d mourned Nye. \u201cOut of the neck of a bottle you used\nto take it, Longy\u2014straight out of the neck of a bottle on a galloping\npony\u2014Arizona redeye, not this ab\u2014oh, what\u2019s the use? They\u2019re on you.\u201d Merritt slipped the wine card under his glass. \u201cAll right. I suppose you think I\u2019m spoiled by the city. I\u2019m as good a\nWesterner as you are, Greenbrier; but, somehow, I can\u2019t make up my mind\nto go back out there. New York is comfortable\u2014comfortable. I make a\ngood living, and I live it. No more wet blankets and riding herd in\nsnowstorms, and bacon and cold coffee, and blowouts once in six months\nfor me. I reckon I\u2019ll hang out here in the future. We\u2019ll take in the\ntheatre to-night, Greenbrier, and after that we\u2019ll dine at\u2014\u201d", "words": 257}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what you are, Merritt,\u201d said Greenbrier, laying one\nelbow in his salad and the other in his butter. \u201cYou are a\nconcentrated, effete, unconditional, short-sleeved, gotch-eared Miss\nSally Walker. God made you perpendicular and suitable to ride straddle\nand use cuss words in the original. Wherefore you have suffered his\nhandiwork to elapse by removing yourself to New York and putting on\nlittle shoes tied with strings, and making faces when you talk. I\u2019ve\nseen you rope and tie a steer in 42\u00bd. If you was to see one now you\u2019d\nwrite to the Police Commissioner about it. And these flapdoodle drinks\nthat you inoculate your system with\u2014these little essences of cowslip\nwith acorns in \u2019em, and paregoric flip\u2014they ain\u2019t anyways in assent\nwith the cordiality of manhood. I hate to see you this way.\u201d \u201cWell, Mr. Greenbrier,\u201d said Merritt, with apology in his tone, \u201cin a\nway you are right. Sometimes I do feel like I was being raised on the\nbottle. But, I tell you, New York is comfortable\u2014comfortable. There\u2019s\nsomething about it\u2014the sights and the crowds, and the way it changes\nevery day, and the very air of it that seems to tie a one-mile-long\nstake rope around a man\u2019s neck, with the other end fastened somewhere\nabout Thirty-fourth Street. I don\u2019t know what it is.\u201d \u201cGod knows,\u201d said Greenbrier sadly, \u201cand I know. The East has gobbled\nyou up. You was venison, and now you\u2019re veal. You put me in mind of a\njaponica in a window. You\u2019ve been signed, sealed and diskivered.\nRequiescat in hoc signo. You make me thirsty.\u201d \u201cA green chartreuse here,\u201d said Merritt to the waiter. \u201cWhiskey straight,\u201d sighed Greenbrier, \u201cand they\u2019re on you, you\nrenegade of the round-ups.\u201d \u201cGuilty, with an application for mercy,\u201d said Merritt. \u201cYou don\u2019t know\nhow it is, Greenbrier. It\u2019s so comfortable here that\u2014\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cPlease loan me your smelling salts,\u201d pleaded Greenbrier. \u201cIf I hadn\u2019t\nseen you once bluff three bluffers from Mazatzal City with an empty gun\nin Phoenix\u2014\u201d Greenbrier\u2019s voice died away in pure grief. \u201cCigars!\u201d he called harshly to the waiter, to hide his emotion. \u201cA pack of Turkish cigarettes for mine,\u201d said Merritt. \u201cThey\u2019re on you,\u201d chanted Greenbrier, struggling to conceal his\ncontempt. At seven they dined in the Where-to-Dine-Well column. That evening a galaxy had assembled there. Bright shone the lights o\u2019er\nfair women and br\u2014let it go, anyhow\u2014brave men. The orchestra played\ncharmingly. Hardly had a tip from a diner been placed in its hands by a\nwaiter when it would burst forth into soniferousness. The more beer you\ncontributed to it the more Meyerbeer it gave you. Which is reciprocity. Merritt put forth exertions on the dinner. Greenbrier was his old\nfriend, and he liked him. He persuaded him to drink a cocktail. \u201cI take the horehound tea,\u201d said Greenbrier, \u201cfor old times\u2019 sake. But\nI\u2019d prefer whiskey straight. They\u2019re on you.\u201d \u201cRight!\u201d said Merritt. \u201cNow, run your eye down that bill of fare and\nsee if it seems to hitch on any of these items.\u201d \u201cLay me on my lava bed!\u201d said Greenbrier, with bulging eyes. \u201cAll these\nspecimens of nutriment in the grub wagon! What\u2019s this? Horse with the\nheaves? I pass. But look along! Here\u2019s truck for twenty round-ups all\nspelled out in different directions. Wait till I see.\u201d The viands ordered, Merritt turned to the wine list. \u201cThis Medoc isn\u2019t bad,\u201d he suggested. \u201cYou\u2019re the doc,\u201d said Greenbrier. \u201cI\u2019d rather have whiskey straight.\nIt\u2019s on you.\u201d Greenbrier looked around the room. The waiter brought things and took\ndishes away. He was observing. He saw a New York restaurant crowd\nenjoying itself. \u201cHow was the range when you left the Gila?\u201d asked Merritt.", "words": 309}, {"story": 32, "title": "THE CALL OF THE TAME", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cFine,\u201d said Greenbrier. \u201cYou see that lady in the red speckled silk at\nthat table. Well, she could warm over her beans at my campfire. Yes,\nthe range was good. She looks as nice as a white mustang I see once on\nBlack River.\u201d When the coffee came, Greenbrier put one foot on the seat of the chair\nnext to him. \u201cYou said it was a comfortable town, Longy,\u201d he said, meditatively.\n\u201cYes, it\u2019s a comfortable town. It\u2019s different from the plains in a blue\nnorther. What did you call that mess in the crock with the handle,\nLongy? Oh, yes, squabs in a cash roll. They\u2019re worth the roll. That\nwhite mustang had just such a way of turning his head and shaking his\nmane\u2014look at her, Longy. If I thought I could sell out my ranch at a\nfair price, I believe I\u2019d\u2014 \u201cGyar\u2014song!\u201d he suddenly cried, in a voice that paralyzed every knife\nand fork in the restaurant. The waiter dived toward the table. \u201cTwo more of them cocktail drinks,\u201d ordered Greenbrier. Merritt looked at him and smiled significantly. \u201cThey\u2019re on me,\u201d said Greenbrier, blowing a puff of smoke to the\nceiling. X", "words": 196}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The poet Longfellow\u2014or was it Confucius, the inventor of\nwisdom?\u2014remarked: \u201cLife is real, life is earnest;\nAnd things are not what they seem.\u201d As mathematics are\u2014or is: thanks, old subscriber!\u2014the only just rule by\nwhich questions of life can be measured, let us, by all means, adjust\nour theme to the straight edge and the balanced column of the great\ngoddess Two-and-Two-Makes-Four. Figures\u2014unassailable sums in\naddition\u2014shall be set over against whatever opposing element there may\nbe. A mathematician, after scanning the above two lines of poetry, would\nsay: \u201cAhem! young gentlemen, if we assume that X plus\u2014that is, that\nlife is real\u2014then things (all of which life includes) are real.\nAnything that is real is what it seems. Then if we consider the\nproposition that \u2018things are not what they seem,\u2019 why\u2014\u201d But this is heresy, and not poesy. We woo the sweet nymph Algebra; we\nwould conduct you into the presence of the elusive, seductive, pursued,\nsatisfying, mysterious X. Not long before the beginning of this century, Septimus Kinsolving, an\nold New Yorker, invented an idea. He originated the discovery that\nbread is made from flour and not from wheat futures. Perceiving that\nthe flour crop was short, and that the Stock Exchange was having no\nperceptible effect on the growing wheat, Mr. Kinsolving cornered the\nflour market. The result was that when you or my landlady (before the war she never\nhad to turn her hand to anything; Southerners accommodated) bought a\nfive-cent loaf of bread you laid down an additional two cents, which\nwent to Mr. Kinsolving as a testimonial to his perspicacity. A second result was that Mr. Kinsolving quit the game with $2,000,000\nprof\u2014er\u2014rake-off.", "words": 279}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Kinsolving\u2019s son Dan was at college when the mathematical\nexperiment in breadstuffs was made. Dan came home during vacation, and\nfound the old gentleman in a red dressing-gown reading \u201cLittle Dorrit\u201d\non the porch of his estimable red brick mansion in Washington Square.\nHe had retired from business with enough extra two-cent pieces from\nbread buyers to reach, if laid side by side, fifteen times around the\nearth and lap as far as the public debt of Paraguay. Dan shook hands with his father, and hurried over to Greenwich Village\nto see his old high-school friend, Kenwitz. Dan had always admired\nKenwitz. Kenwitz was pale, curly-haired, intense, serious,\nmathematical, studious, altruistic, socialistic, and the natural foe of\noligarchies. Kenwitz had foregone college, and was learning\nwatch-making in his father\u2019s jewelry store. Dan was smiling, jovial,\neasy-tempered and tolerant alike of kings and ragpickers. The two\nforegathered joyously, being opposites. And then Dan went back to\ncollege, and Kenwitz to his mainsprings\u2014and to his private library in\nthe rear of the jewelry shop. Four years later Dan came back to Washington Square with the\naccumulations of B. A. and two years of Europe thick upon him. He took\na filial look at Septimus Kinsolving\u2019s elaborate tombstone in Greenwood\nand a tedious excursion through typewritten documents with the family\nlawyer; and then, feeling himself a lonely and hopeless millionaire,\nhurried down to the old jewelry store across Sixth Avenue. Kenwitz unscrewed a magnifying glass from his eye, routed out his\nparent from a dingy rear room, and abandoned the interior of watches\nfor outdoors. He went with Dan, and they sat on a bench in Washington\nSquare. Dan had not changed much; he was stalwart, and had a dignity\nthat was inclined to relax into a grin. Kenwitz was more serious, more\nintense, more learned, philosophical and socialistic.", "words": 307}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI know about it now,\u201d said Dan, finally. \u201cI pumped it out of the\neminent legal lights that turned over to me poor old dad\u2019s collections\nof bonds and boodle. It amounts to $2,000,000, Ken. And I am told that\nhe squeezed it out of the chaps that pay their pennies for loaves of\nbread at little bakeries around the corner. You\u2019ve studied economics,\nDan, and you know all about monopolies, and the masses, and octopuses,\nand the rights of laboring people. I never thought about those things\nbefore. Football and trying to be white to my fellow-man were about the\nextent of my college curriculum. \u201cBut since I came back and found out how dad made his money I\u2019ve been\nthinking. I\u2019d like awfully well to pay back those chaps who had to give\nup too much money for bread. I know it would buck the line of my income\nfor a good many yards; but I\u2019d like to make it square with \u2019em. Is\nthere any way it can be done, old Ways and Means?\u201d Kenwitz\u2019s big black eyes glowed fierily. His thin, intellectual face\ntook on almost a sardonic cast. He caught Dan\u2019s arm with the grip of a\nfriend and a judge. \u201cYou can\u2019t do it!\u201d he said, emphatically. \u201cOne of the chief punishments\nof you men of ill-gotten wealth is that when you do repent you find\nthat you have lost the power to make reparation or restitution. I\nadmire your good intentions, Dan, but you can\u2019t do anything. Those\npeople were robbed of their precious pennies. It\u2019s too late to remedy\nthe evil. You can\u2019t pay them back\u201d", "words": 274}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOf course,\u201d said Dan, lighting his pipe, \u201cwe couldn\u2019t hunt up every\none of the duffers and hand \u2019em back the right change. There\u2019s an awful\nlot of \u2019em buying bread all the time. Funny taste they have\u2014I never\ncared for bread especially, except for a toasted cracker with the\nRoquefort. But we might find a few of \u2019em and chuck some of dad\u2019s cash\nback where it came from. I\u2019d feel better if I could. It seems tough for\npeople to be held up for a soggy thing like bread. One wouldn\u2019t mind\nstanding a rise in broiled lobsters or deviled crabs. Get to work and\nthink, Ken. I want to pay back all of that money I can.\u201d \u201cThere are plenty of charities,\u201d said Kenwitz, mechanically. \u201cEasy enough,\u201d said Dan, in a cloud of smoke. \u201cI suppose I could give\nthe city a park, or endow an asparagus bed in a hospital. But I don\u2019t\nwant Paul to get away with the proceeds of the gold brick we sold\nPeter. It\u2019s the bread shorts I want to cover, Ken.\u201d The thin fingers of Kenwitz moved rapidly. \u201cDo you know how much money it would take to pay back the losses of\nconsumers during that corner in flour?\u201d he asked. \u201cI do not.\u201d said Dan, stoutly. \u201cMy lawyer tells me that I have two\nmillions.\u201d \u201cIf you had a hundred millions,\u201d said Kenwitz, vehemently, \u201cyou\ncouldn\u2019t repair a thousandth part of the damage that has been done. You\ncannot conceive of the accumulated evils produced by misapplied wealth.\nEach penny that was wrung from the lean purses of the poor reacted a\nthousandfold to their harm. You do not understand. You do not see how\nhopeless is your desire to make restitution. Not in a single instance\ncan it be done.\u201d \u201cBack up, philosopher!\u201d said Dan. \u201cThe penny has no sorrow that the\ndollar cannot heal.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNot in one instance,\u201d repeated Kenwitz. \u201cI will give you one, and let\nus see. Thomas Boyne had a little bakery over there in Varick Street.\nHe sold bread to the poorest people. When the price of flour went up he\nhad to raise the price of bread. His customers were too poor to pay it,\nBoyne\u2019s business failed and he lost his $1,000 capital\u2014all he had in\nthe world.\u201d Dan Kinsolving struck the park bench a mighty blow with his fist. \u201cI accept the instance,\u201d he cried. \u201cTake me to Boyne. I will repay his\nthousand dollars and buy him a new bakery.\u201d \u201cWrite your check,\u201d said Kenwitz, without moving, \u201cand then begin to\nwrite checks in payment of the train of consequences. Draw the next one\nfor $50,000. Boyne went insane after his failure and set fire to the\nbuilding from which he was about to be evicted. The loss amounted to\nthat much. Boyne died in an asylum.\u201d \u201cStick to the instance,\u201d said Dan. \u201cI haven\u2019t noticed any insurance\ncompanies on my charity list.\u201d \u201cDraw your next check for $100,000,\u201d went on Kenwitz. \u201cBoyne\u2019s son fell\ninto bad ways after the bakery closed, and was accused of murder. He\nwas acquitted last week after a three years\u2019 legal battle, and the\nstate draws upon taxpayers for that much expense.\u201d \u201cBack to the bakery!\u201d exclaimed Dan, impatiently. \u201cThe Government\ndoesn\u2019t need to stand in the bread line.\u201d \u201cThe last item of the instance is\u2014come and I will show you,\u201d said\nKenwitz, rising. The Socialistic watchmaker was happy. He was a millionaire-baiter by\nnature and a pessimist by trade. Kenwitz would assure you in one breath\nthat money was but evil and corruption, and that your brand-new watch\nneeded cleaning and a new ratchet-wheel.", "words": 295}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He conducted Kinsolving southward out of the square and into ragged,\npoverty-haunted Varick Street. Up the narrow stairway of a squalid\nbrick tenement he led the penitent offspring of the Octopus. He knocked\non a door, and a clear voice called to them to enter. In that almost bare room a young woman sat sewing at a machine. She\nnodded to Kenwitz as to a familiar acquaintance. One little stream of\nsunlight through the dingy window burnished her heavy hair to the color\nof an ancient Tuscan\u2019s shield. She flashed a rippling smile at Kenwitz\nand a look of somewhat flustered inquiry. Kinsolving stood regarding her clear and pathetic beauty in\nheart-throbbing silence. Thus they came into the presence of the last\nitem of the Instance. \u201cHow many this week, Miss Mary?\u201d asked the watchmaker. A mountain of\ncoarse gray shirts lay upon the floor. \u201cNearly thirty dozen,\u201d said the young woman cheerfully. \u201cI\u2019ve made\nalmost $4. I\u2019m improving, Mr. Kenwitz. I hardly know what to do with so\nmuch money.\u201d Her eyes turned, brightly soft, in the direction of Dan. A\nlittle pink spot came out on her round, pale cheek. Kenwitz chuckled like a diabolic raven. \u201cMiss Boyne,\u201d he said, \u201clet me present Mr. Kinsolving, the son of the\nman who put bread up five years ago. He thinks he would like to do\nsomething to aid those who where inconvenienced by that act.\u201d The smile left the young woman\u2019s face. She rose and pointed her\nforefinger toward the door. This time she looked Kinsolving straight in\nthe eye, but it was not a look that gave delight.", "words": 270}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The two men went down Varick Street. Kenwitz, letting all his pessimism\nand rancor and hatred of the Octopus come to the surface, gibed at the\nmoneyed side of his friend in an acrid torrent of words. Dan appeared\nto be listening, and then turned to Kenwitz and shook hands with him\nwarmly. \u201cI\u2019m obliged to you, Ken, old man,\u201d he said, vaguely\u2014\u201ca thousand times\nobliged.\u201d \u201cMein Gott! you are crazy!\u201d cried the watchmaker, dropping his\nspectacles for the first time in years. Two months afterward Kenwitz went into a large bakery on lower Broadway\nwith a pair of gold-rimmed eyeglasses that he had mended for the\nproprietor. A lady was giving an order to a clerk as Kenwitz passed her. \u201cThese loaves are ten cents,\u201d said the clerk. \u201cI always get them at eight cents uptown,\u201d said the lady. \u201cYou need not\nfill the order. I will drive by there on my way home.\u201d The voice was familiar. The watchmaker paused. \u201cMr. Kenwitz!\u201d cried the lady, heartily. \u201cHow do you do?\u201d Kenwitz was trying to train his socialistic and economic comprehension\non her wonderful fur boa and the carriage waiting outside. \u201cWhy, Miss Boyne!\u201d he began. \u201cMrs. Kinsolving,\u201d she corrected. \u201cDan and I were married a month ago.\u201d XI\nTHE THING\u2019S THE PLAY Being acquainted with a newspaper reporter who had a couple of free\npasses, I got to see the performance a few nights ago at one of the\npopular vaudeville houses. One of the numbers was a violin solo by a striking-looking man not much\npast forty, but with very gray thick hair. Not being afflicted with a\ntaste for music, I let the system of noises drift past my ears while I\nregarded the man.", "words": 289}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cThere was a story about that chap a month or two ago,\u201d said the\nreporter. \u201cThey gave me the assignment. It was to run a column and was\nto be on the extremely light and joking order. The old man seems to\nlike the funny touch I give to local happenings. Oh, yes, I\u2019m working\non a farce comedy now. Well, I went down to the house and got all the\ndetails; but I certainly fell down on that job. I went back and turned\nin a comic write-up of an east side funeral instead. Why? Oh, I\ncouldn\u2019t seem to get hold of it with my funny hooks, somehow. Maybe you\ncould make a one-act tragedy out of it for a curtain-raiser. I\u2019ll give\nyou the details.\u201d After the performance my friend, the reporter, recited to me the facts\nover the W\u00fcrzburger. \u201cI see no reason,\u201d said I, when he had concluded, \u201cwhy that shouldn\u2019t\nmake a rattling good funny story. Those three people couldn\u2019t have\nacted in a more absurd and preposterous manner if they had been real\nactors in a real theatre. I\u2019m really afraid that all the stage is a\nworld, anyhow, and all the players men and women. \u2018The thing\u2019s the\nplay,\u2019 is the way I quote Mr. Shakespeare.\u201d \u201cTry it,\u201d said the reporter. \u201cI will,\u201d said I; and I did, to show him how he could have made a\nhumorous column of it for his paper. There stands a house near Abingdon Square. On the ground floor there\nhas been for twenty-five years a little store where toys and notions\nand stationery are sold.", "words": 270}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One night twenty years ago there was a wedding in the rooms above the\nstore. The Widow Mayo owned the house and store. Her daughter Helen was\nmarried to Frank Barry. John Delaney was best man. Helen was eighteen,\nand her picture had been printed in a morning paper next to the\nheadlines of a \u201cWholesale Female Murderess\u201d story from Butte, Mont. But\nafter your eye and intelligence had rejected the connection, you seized\nyour magnifying glass and read beneath the portrait her description as\none of a series of Prominent Beauties and Belles of the lower west\nside. Frank Barry and John Delaney were \u201cprominent\u201d young beaux of the same\nside, and bosom friends, whom you expected to turn upon each other\nevery time the curtain went up. One who pays his money for orchestra\nseats and fiction expects this. That is the first funny idea that has\nturned up in the story yet. Both had made a great race for Helen\u2019s\nhand. When Frank won, John shook his hand and congratulated\nhim\u2014honestly, he did. After the ceremony Helen ran upstairs to put on her hat. She was\ngetting married in a traveling dress. She and Frank were going to Old\nPoint Comfort for a week. Downstairs the usual horde of gibbering\ncave-dwellers were waiting with their hands full of old Congress\ngaiters and paper bags of hominy. Then there was a rattle of the fire-escape, and into her room jumps the\nmad and infatuated John Delaney, with a damp curl drooping upon his\nforehead, and made violent and reprehensible love to his lost one,\nentreating her to flee or fly with him to the Riviera, or the Bronx, or\nany old place where there are Italian skies and _dolce far niente_.", "words": 293}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It would have carried Blaney off his feet to see Helen repulse him.\nWith blazing and scornful eyes she fairly withered him by demanding\nwhatever he meant by speaking to respectable people that way. In a few moments she had him going. The manliness that had possessed\nhim departed. He bowed low, and said something about \u201cirresistible\nimpulse\u201d and \u201cforever carry in his heart the memory of\u201d\u2014and she\nsuggested that he catch the first fire-escape going down. \u201cI will away,\u201d said John Delaney, \u201cto the furthermost parts of the\nearth. I cannot remain near you and know that you are another\u2019s. I will\nto Africa, and there amid other scenes strive to for\u2014\u201d \u201cFor goodness sake, get out,\u201d said Helen. \u201cSomebody might come in.\u201d He knelt upon one knee, and she extended him one white hand that he\nmight give it a farewell kiss. Girls, was this choice boon of the great little god Cupid ever\nvouchsafed you\u2014to have the fellow you want hard and fast, and have the\none you don\u2019t want come with a damp curl on his forehead and kneel to\nyou and babble of Africa and love which, in spite of everything, shall\nforever bloom, an amaranth, in his heart? To know your power, and to\nfeel the sweet security of your own happy state; to send the unlucky\none, broken-hearted, to foreign climes, while you congratulate yourself\nas he presses his last kiss upon your knuckles, that your nails are\nwell manicured\u2014say, girls, it\u2019s galluptious\u2014don\u2019t ever let it get by\nyou. And then, of course\u2014how did you guess it?\u2014the door opened and in\nstalked the bridegroom, jealous of slow-tying bonnet strings. The farewell kiss was imprinted upon Helen\u2019s hand, and out of the\nwindow and down the fire-escape sprang John Delaney, Africa bound.", "words": 298}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A little slow music, if you please\u2014faint violin, just a breath in the\nclarinet and a touch of the \u2018cello. Imagine the scene. Frank,\nwhite-hot, with the cry of a man wounded to death bursting from him.\nHelen, rushing and clinging to him, trying to explain. He catches her\nwrists and tears them from his shoulders\u2014once, twice, thrice he sways\nher this way and that\u2014the stage manager will show you how\u2014and throws\nher from him to the floor a huddled, crushed, moaning thing. Never, he\ncries, will he look upon her face again, and rushes from the house\nthrough the staring groups of astonished guests. And, now because it is the Thing instead of the Play, the audience must\nstroll out into the real lobby of the world and marry, die, grow gray,\nrich, poor, happy or sad during the intermission of twenty years which\nmust precede the rising of the curtain again. Mrs. Barry inherited the shop and the house. At thirty-eight she could\nhave bested many an eighteen-year-old at a beauty show on points and\ngeneral results. Only a few people remembered her wedding comedy, but\nshe made of it no secret. She did not pack it in lavender or moth\nballs, nor did she sell it to a magazine. One day a middle-aged money-making lawyer, who bought his legal cap and\nink of her, asked her across the counter to marry him. \u201cI\u2019m really much obliged to you,\u201d said Helen, cheerfully, \u201cbut I\nmarried another man twenty years ago. He was more a goose than a man,\nbut I think I love him yet. I have never seen him since about half an\nhour after the ceremony. Was it copying ink that you wanted or just\nwriting fluid?\u201d", "words": 291}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The lawyer bowed over the counter with old-time grace and left a\nrespectful kiss on the back of her hand. Helen sighed. Parting salutes,\nhowever romantic, may be overdone. Here she was at thirty-eight,\nbeautiful and admired; and all that she seemed to have got from her\nlovers were approaches and adieus. Worse still, in the last one she had\nlost a customer, too. Business languished, and she hung out a Room to Let card. Two large\nrooms on the third floor were prepared for desirable tenants. Roomers\ncame, and went regretfully, for the house of Mrs. Barry was the abode\nof neatness, comfort and taste. One day came Ramonti, the violinist, and engaged the front room above.\nThe discord and clatter uptown offended his nice ear; so a friend had\nsent him to this oasis in the desert of noise. Ramonti, with his still youthful face, his dark eyebrows, his short,\npointed, foreign, brown beard, his distinguished head of gray hair, and\nhis artist\u2019s temperament\u2014revealed in his light, gay and sympathetic\nmanner\u2014was a welcome tenant in the old house near Abingdon Square. Helen lived on the floor above the store. The architecture of it was\nsingular and quaint. The hall was large and almost square. Up one side\nof it, and then across the end of it ascended an open stairway to the\nfloor above. This hall space she had furnished as a sitting room and\noffice combined. There she kept her desk and wrote her business\nletters; and there she sat of evenings by a warm fire and a bright red\nlight and sewed or read. Ramonti found the atmosphere so agreeable that\nhe spent much time there, describing to Mrs. Barry the wonders of\nParis, where he had studied with a particularly notorious and noisy\nfiddler.", "words": 299}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Next comes lodger No. 2, a handsome, melancholy man in the early 40\u2019s,\nwith a brown, mysterious beard, and strangely pleading, haunting eyes.\nHe, too, found the society of Helen a desirable thing. With the eyes of\nRomeo and Othello\u2019s tongue, he charmed her with tales of distant climes\nand wooed her by respectful innuendo. From the first Helen felt a marvelous and compelling thrill in the\npresence of this man. His voice somehow took her swiftly back to the\ndays of her youth\u2019s romance. This feeling grew, and she gave way to it,\nand it led her to an instinctive belief that he had been a factor in\nthat romance. And then with a woman\u2019s reasoning (oh, yes, they do,\nsometimes) she leaped over common syllogisms and theory, and logic, and\nwas sure that her husband had come back to her. For she saw in his eyes\nlove, which no woman can mistake, and a thousand tons of regret and\nremorse, which aroused pity, which is perilously near to love requited,\nwhich is the _sine qua non_ in the house that Jack built. But she made no sign. A husband who steps around the corner for twenty\nyears and then drops in again should not expect to find his slippers\nlaid out too conveniently near nor a match ready lighted for his cigar.\nThere must be expiation, explanation, and possibly execration. A little\npurgatory, and then, maybe, if he were properly humble, he might be\ntrusted with a harp and crown. And so she made no sign that she knew or\nsuspected. And my friend, the reporter, could see nothing funny in this! Sent out\non an assignment to write up a roaring, hilarious, brilliant joshing\nstory of\u2014but I will not knock a brother\u2014let us go on with the story.", "words": 301}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One evening Ramonti stopped in Helen\u2019s hall-office-reception-room and\ntold his love with the tenderness and ardor of the enraptured artist.\nHis words were a bright flame of the divine fire that glows in the\nheart of a man who is a dreamer and doer combined. \u201cBut before you give me an answer,\u201d he went on, before she could accuse\nhim of suddenness, \u201cI must tell you that \u2018Ramonti?\u2019 is the only name I\nhave to offer you. My manager gave me that. I do not know who I am or\nwhere I came from. My first recollection is of opening my eyes in a\nhospital. I was a young man, and I had been there for weeks. My life\nbefore that is a blank to me. They told me that I was found lying in\nthe street with a wound on my head and was brought there in an\nambulance. They thought I must have fallen and struck my head upon the\nstones. There was nothing to show who I was. I have never been able to\nremember. After I was discharged from the hospital, I took up the\nviolin. I have had success. Mrs. Barry\u2014I do not know your name except\nthat\u2014I love you; the first time I saw you I realized that you were the\none woman in the world for me\u2014and\u201d\u2014oh, a lot of stuff like that. Helen felt young again. First a wave of pride and a sweet little thrill\nof vanity went all over her; and then she looked Ramonti in the eyes,\nand a tremendous throb went through her heart. She hadn\u2019t expected that\nthrob. It took her by surprise. The musician had become a big factor in\nher life, and she hadn\u2019t been aware of it.", "words": 293}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMr. Ramonti,\u201d she said sorrowfully (this was not on the stage,\nremember; it was in the old home near Abingdon Square), \u201cI\u2019m awfully\nsorry, but I\u2019m a married woman.\u201d And then she told him the sad story of her life, as a heroine must do,\nsooner or later, either to a theatrical manager or to a reporter. Ramonti took her hand, bowed low and kissed it, and went up to his\nroom. Helen sat down and looked mournfully at her hand. Well she might. Three\nsuitors had kissed it, mounted their red roan steeds and ridden away. In an hour entered the mysterious stranger with the haunting eyes.\nHelen was in the willow rocker, knitting a useless thing in\ncotton-wool. He ricocheted from the stairs and stopped for a chat.\nSitting across the table from her, he also poured out his narrative of\nlove. And then he said: \u201cHelen, do you not remember me? I think I have\nseen it in your eyes. Can you forgive the past and remember the love\nthat has lasted for twenty years? I wronged you deeply\u2014I was afraid to\ncome back to you\u2014but my love overpowered my reason. Can you, will you,\nforgive me?\u201d Helen stood up. The mysterious stranger held one of her hands in a\nstrong and trembling clasp. There she stood, and I pity the stage that it has not acquired a scene\nlike that and her emotions to portray. For she stood with a divided heart. The fresh, unforgettable, virginal\nlove for her bridegroom was hers; the treasured, sacred, honored memory\nof her first choice filled half her soul. She leaned to that pure\nfeeling. Honor and faith and sweet, abiding romance bound her to it.\nBut the other half of her heart and soul was filled with something\nelse\u2014a later, fuller, nearer influence. And so the old fought against\nthe new.", "words": 312}, {"story": 33, "title": "THE UNKNOWN QUANTITY", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And while she hesitated, from the room above came the soft, racking,\npetitionary music of a violin. The hag, music, bewitches some of the\nnoblest. The daws may peck upon one\u2019s sleeve without injury, but\nwhoever wears his heart upon his tympanum gets it not far from the\nneck. This music and the musician called her, and at her side honor and the\nold love held her back. \u201cForgive me,\u201d he pleaded. \u201cTwenty years is a long time to remain away from the one you say you\nlove,\u201d she declared, with a purgatorial touch. \u201cHow could I tell?\u201d he begged. \u201cI will conceal nothing from you. That\nnight when he left I followed him. I was mad with jealousy. On a dark\nstreet I struck him down. He did not rise. I examined him. His head had\nstruck a stone. I did not intend to kill him. I was mad with love and\njealousy. I hid near by and saw an ambulance take him away. Although\nyou married him, Helen\u2014\u201d \u201c_Who Are You?_\u201d cried the woman, with wide-open eyes, snatching her\nhand away. \u201cDon\u2019t you remember me, Helen\u2014the one who has always loved you best? I\nam John Delaney. If you can forgive\u2014\u201d But she was gone, leaping, stumbling, hurrying, flying up the stairs\ntoward the music and him who had forgotten, but who had known her for\nhis in each of his two existences, and as she climbed up she sobbed,\ncried and sang: \u201cFrank! Frank! Frank!\u201d Three mortals thus juggling with years as though they were billiard\nballs, and my friend, the reporter, couldn\u2019t see anything funny in it! XII", "words": 272}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "My wife and I parted on that morning in precisely our usual manner. She\nleft her second cup of tea to follow me to the front door. There she\nplucked from my lapel the invisible strand of lint (the universal act\nof woman to proclaim ownership) and bade me to take care of my cold. I\nhad no cold. Next came her kiss of parting\u2014the level kiss of\ndomesticity flavored with Young Hyson. There was no fear of the\nextemporaneous, of variety spicing her infinite custom. With the deft\ntouch of long malpractice, she dabbed awry my well-set scarf pin; and\nthen, as I closed the door, I heard her morning slippers pattering back\nto her cooling tea. When I set out I had no thought or premonition of what was to occur.\nThe attack came suddenly. For many weeks I had been toiling, almost night and day, at a famous\nrailroad law case that I won triumphantly but a few days previously. In\nfact, I had been digging away at the law almost without cessation for\nmany years. Once or twice good Doctor Volney, my friend and physician,\nhad warned me. \u201cIf you don\u2019t slacken up, Bellford,\u201d he said, \u201cyou\u2019ll go suddenly to\npieces. Either your nerves or your brain will give way. Tell me, does a\nweek pass in which you do not read in the papers of a case of\naphasia\u2014of some man lost, wandering nameless, with his past and his\nidentity blotted out\u2014and all from that little brain clot made by\noverwork or worry?\u201d \u201cI always thought,\u201d said I, \u201cthat the clot in those instances was\nreally to be found on the brains of the newspaper reporters.\u201d Doctor Volney shook his head. \u201cThe disease exists,\u201d he said. \u201cYou need a change or a rest.\nCourt-room, office and home\u2014there is the only route you travel. For\nrecreation you\u2014read law books. Better take warning in time.\u201d", "words": 318}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOn Thursday nights,\u201d I said, defensively, \u201cmy wife and I play\ncribbage. On Sundays she reads to me the weekly letter from her mother.\nThat law books are not a recreation remains yet to be established.\u201d That morning as I walked I was thinking of Doctor Volney\u2019s words. I was\nfeeling as well as I usually did\u2014possibly in better spirits than usual. I awoke with stiff and cramped muscles from having slept long on the\nincommodious seat of a day coach. I leaned my head against the seat and\ntried to think. After a long time I said to myself: \u201cI must have a name\nof some sort.\u201d I searched my pockets. Not a card; not a letter; not a\npaper or monogram could I find. But I found in my coat pocket nearly\n$3,000 in bills of large denomination. \u201cI must be some one, of course,\u201d\nI repeated to myself, and began again to consider. The car was well crowded with men, among whom, I told myself, there\nmust have been some common interest, for they intermingled freely, and\nseemed in the best good humor and spirits. One of them\u2014a stout,\nspectacled gentleman enveloped in a decided odor of cinnamon and\naloes\u2014took the vacant half of my seat with a friendly nod, and unfolded\na newspaper. In the intervals between his periods of reading, we\nconversed, as travelers will, on current affairs. I found myself able\nto sustain the conversation on such subjects with credit, at least to\nmy memory. By and by my companion said: \u201cYou are one of us, of course. Fine lot of men the West sends in this\ntime. I\u2019m glad they held the convention in New York; I\u2019ve never been\nEast before. My name\u2019s R. P. Bolder\u2014Bolder & Son, of Hickory Grove,\nMissouri.\u201d", "words": 299}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Though unprepared, I rose to the emergency, as men will when put to it.\nNow must I hold a christening, and be at once babe, parson and parent.\nMy senses came to the rescue of my slower brain. The insistent odor of\ndrugs from my companion supplied one idea; a glance at his newspaper,\nwhere my eye met a conspicuous advertisement, assisted me further. \u201cMy name,\u201d said I, glibly, \u201cis Edward Pinkhammer. I am a druggist, and\nmy home is in Cornopolis, Kansas.\u201d \u201cI knew you were a druggist,\u201d said my fellow traveler, affably. \u201cI saw\nthe callous spot on your right forefinger where the handle of the\npestle rubs. Of course, you are a delegate to our National Convention.\u201d \u201cAre all these men druggists?\u201d I asked, wonderingly. \u201cThey are. This car came through from the West. And they\u2019re your\nold-time druggists, too\u2014none of your patent tablet-and-granule\npharmashootists that use slot machines instead of a prescription desk.\nWe percolate our own paregoric and roll our own pills, and we ain\u2019t\nabove handling a few garden seeds in the spring, and carrying a side\nline of confectionery and shoes. I tell you Hampinker, I\u2019ve got an idea\nto spring on this convention\u2014new ideas is what they want. Now, you know\nthe shelf bottles of tartar emetic and Rochelle salt Ant. et Pot. Tart.\nand Sod. et Pot. Tart.\u2014one\u2019s poison, you know, and the other\u2019s\nharmless. It\u2019s easy to mistake one label for the other. Where do\ndruggists mostly keep \u2019em? Why, as far apart as possible, on different\nshelves. That\u2019s wrong. I say keep \u2019em side by side, so when you want\none you can always compare it with the other and avoid mistakes. Do you\ncatch the idea?\u201d \u201cIt seems to me a very good one,\u201d I said.", "words": 298}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAll right! When I spring it on the convention you back it up. We\u2019ll\nmake some of these Eastern orange-phosphate-and-massage-cream\nprofessors that think they\u2019re the only lozenges in the market look like\nhypodermic tablets.\u201d \u201cIf I can be of any aid,\u201d I said, warming, \u201cthe two bottles of\u2014er\u2014\u201d \u201cTartrate of antimony and potash, and tartrate of soda and potash.\u201d \u201cShall henceforth sit side by side,\u201d I concluded, firmly. \u201cNow, there\u2019s another thing,\u201d said Mr. Bolder. \u201cFor an excipient in\nmanipulating a pill mass which do you prefer\u2014the magnesia carbonate or\nthe pulverised glycerrhiza radix?\u201d \u201cThe\u2014er\u2014magnesia,\u201d I said. It was easier to say than the other word. Mr. Bolder glanced at me distrustfully through his spectacles. \u201cGive me the glycerrhiza,\u201d said he. \u201cMagnesia cakes.\u201d \u201cHere\u2019s another one of these fake aphasia cases,\u201d he said, presently,\nhanding me his newspaper, and laying his finger upon an article. \u201cI\ndon\u2019t believe in \u2019em. I put nine out of ten of \u2019em down as frauds. A\nman gets sick of his business and his folks and wants to have a good\ntime. He skips out somewhere, and when they find him he pretends to\nhave lost his memory\u2014don\u2019t know his own name, and won\u2019t even recognize\nthe strawberry mark on his wife\u2019s left shoulder. Aphasia! Tut! Why\ncan\u2019t they stay at home and forget?\u201d I took the paper and read, after the pungent headlines, the following:", "words": 232}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDENVER, June 12.\u2014Elwyn C. Bellford, a prominent lawyer, is\nmysteriously missing from his home since three days ago, and all\nefforts to locate him have been in vain. Mr. Bellford is a well-known\ncitizen of the highest standing, and has enjoyed a large and lucrative\nlaw practice. He is married and owns a fine home and the most extensive\nprivate library in the State. On the day of his disappearance, he drew\nquite a large sum of money from his bank. No one can be found who saw\nhim after he left the bank. Mr. Bellford was a man of singularly quiet\nand domestic tastes, and seemed to find his happiness in his home and\nprofession. If any clue at all exists to his strange disappearance, it\nmay be found in the fact that for some months he has been deeply\nabsorbed in an important law case in connection with the Q. Y. and Z.\nRailroad Company. It is feared that overwork may have affected his\nmind. Every effort is being made to discover the whereabouts of the\nmissing man.\u201d \u201cIt seems to me you are not altogether uncynical, Mr. Bolder,\u201d I said,\nafter I had read the despatch. \u201cThis has the sound, to me, of a genuine\ncase. Why should this man, prosperous, happily married, and respected,\nchoose suddenly to abandon everything? I know that these lapses of\nmemory do occur, and that men do find themselves adrift without a name,\na history or a home.\u201d \u201cOh, gammon and jalap!\u201d said Mr. Bolder. \u201cIt\u2019s larks they\u2019re after.\nThere\u2019s too much education nowadays. Men know about aphasia, and they\nuse it for an excuse. The women are wise, too. When it\u2019s all over they\nlook you in the eye, as scientific as you please, and say: \u2018He\nhypnotized me.\u2019\u201d Thus Mr. Bolder diverted, but did not aid, me with his comments and\nphilosophy.", "words": 313}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "We arrived in New York about ten at night. I rode in a cab to a hotel,\nand I wrote my name \u201cEdward Pinkhammer\u201d in the register. As I did so I\nfelt pervade me a splendid, wild, intoxicating buoyancy\u2014a sense of\nunlimited freedom, of newly attained possibilities. I was just born\ninto the world. The old fetters\u2014whatever they had been\u2014were stricken\nfrom my hands and feet. The future lay before me a clear road such as\nan infant enters, and I could set out upon it equipped with a man\u2019s\nlearning and experience. I thought the hotel clerk looked at me five seconds too long. I had no\nbaggage. \u201cThe Druggists\u2019 Convention,\u201d I said. \u201cMy trunk has somehow failed to\narrive.\u201d I drew out a roll of money. \u201cAh!\u201d said he, showing an auriferous tooth, \u201cwe have quite a number of\nthe Western delegates stopping here.\u201d He struck a bell for the boy. I endeavored to give color to my r\u00f4le. \u201cThere is an important movement on foot among us Westerners,\u201d I said,\n\u201cin regard to a recommendation to the convention that the bottles\ncontaining the tartrate of antimony and potash, and the tartrate of\nsodium and potash be kept in a contiguous position on the shelf.\u201d \u201cGentleman to three-fourteen,\u201d said the clerk, hastily. I was whisked\naway to my room. The next day I bought a trunk and clothing, and began to live the life\nof Edward Pinkhammer. I did not tax my brain with endeavors to solve\nproblems of the past. It was a piquant and sparkling cup that the great island city held up\nto my lips. I drank of it gratefully. The keys of Manhattan belong to\nhim who is able to bear them. You must be either the city\u2019s guest or\nits victim.", "words": 299}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The following few days were as gold and silver. Edward Pinkhammer, yet\ncounting back to his birth by hours only, knew the rare joy of having\ncome upon so diverting a world full-fledged and unrestrained. I sat\nentranced on the magic carpets provided in theatres and roof-gardens,\nthat transported one into strange and delightful lands full of\nfrolicsome music, pretty girls and grotesque drolly extravagant\nparodies upon human kind. I went here and there at my own dear will,\nbound by no limits of space, time or comportment. I dined in weird\ncabarets, at weirder _tables d\u2019h\u00f4te_ to the sound of Hungarian music\nand the wild shouts of mercurial artists and sculptors. Or, again,\nwhere the night life quivers in the electric glare like a kinetoscopic\npicture, and the millinery of the world, and its jewels, and the ones\nwhom they adorn, and the men who make all three possible are met for\ngood cheer and the spectacular effect. And among all these scenes that\nI have mentioned I learned one thing that I never knew before. And that\nis that the key to liberty is not in the hands of License, but\nConvention holds it. Comity has a toll-gate at which you must pay, or\nyou may not enter the land of Freedom. In all the glitter, the seeming\ndisorder, the parade, the abandon, I saw this law, unobtrusive, yet\nlike iron, prevail. Therefore, in Manhattan you must obey these\nunwritten laws, and then you will be freest of the free. If you decline\nto be bound by them, you put on shackles.", "words": 264}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Sometimes, as my mood urged me, I would seek the stately, softly\nmurmuring palm rooms, redolent with high-born life and delicate\nrestraint, in which to dine. Again I would go down to the waterways in\nsteamers packed with vociferous, bedecked, unchecked love-making clerks\nand shop-girls to their crude pleasures on the island shores. And there\nwas always Broadway\u2014glistening, opulent, wily, varying, desirable\nBroadway\u2014growing upon one like an opium habit. One afternoon as I entered my hotel a stout man with a big nose and a\nblack mustache blocked my way in the corridor. When I would have passed\naround him, he greet me with offensive familiarity. \u201cHello, Bellford!\u201d he cried, loudly. \u201cWhat the deuce are you doing in\nNew York? Didn\u2019t know anything could drag you away from that old book\nden of yours. Is Mrs. B. along or is this a little business run alone,\neh?\u201d \u201cYou have made a mistake, sir,\u201d I said, coldly, releasing my hand from\nhis grasp. \u201cMy name is Pinkhammer. You will excuse me.\u201d The man dropped to one side, apparently astonished. As I walked to the\nclerk\u2019s desk I heard him call to a bell boy and say something about\ntelegraph blanks. \u201cYou will give me my bill,\u201d I said to the clerk, \u201cand have my baggage\nbrought down in half an hour. I do not care to remain where I am\nannoyed by confidence men.\u201d I moved that afternoon to another hotel, a sedate, old-fashioned one on\nlower Fifth Avenue. There was a restaurant a little way off Broadway where one could be\nserved almost _al fresco_ in a tropic array of screening flora. Quiet\nand luxury and a perfect service made it an ideal place in which to\ntake luncheon or refreshment. One afternoon I was there picking my way\nto a table among the ferns when I felt my sleeve caught. \u201cMr. Bellford!\u201d exclaimed an amazingly sweet voice.", "words": 318}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I turned quickly to see a lady seated alone\u2014a lady of about thirty,\nwith exceedingly handsome eyes, who looked at me as though I had been\nher very dear friend. \u201cYou were about to pass me,\u201d she said, accusingly. \u201cDon\u2019t tell me you\ndo not know me. Why should we not shake hands\u2014at least once in fifteen\nyears?\u201d I shook hands with her at once. I took a chair opposite her at the\ntable. I summoned with my eyebrows a hovering waiter. The lady was\nphilandering with an orange ice. I ordered a _cr\u00e8me de menthe_. Her\nhair was reddish bronze. You could not look at it, because you could\nnot look away from her eyes. But you were conscious of it as you are\nconscious of sunset while you look into the profundities of a wood at\ntwilight. \u201cAre you sure you know me?\u201d I asked. \u201cNo,\u201d she said, smiling. \u201cI was never sure of that.\u201d \u201cWhat would you think,\u201d I said, a little anxiously, \u201cif I were to tell\nyou that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, from Cornopolis, Kansas?\u201d \u201cWhat would I think?\u201d she repeated, with a merry glance. \u201cWhy, that you\nhad not brought Mrs. Bellford to New York with you, of course. I do\nwish you had. I would have liked to see Marian.\u201d Her voice lowered\nslightly\u2014\u201cYou haven\u2019t changed much, Elwyn.\u201d I felt her wonderful eyes searching mine and my face more closely. \u201cYes, you have,\u201d she amended, and there was a soft, exultant note in\nher latest tones; \u201cI see it now. You haven\u2019t forgotten. You haven\u2019t\nforgotten for a year or a day or an hour. I told you you never could.\u201d I poked my straw anxiously in the _cr\u00e8me de menthe_. \u201cI\u2019m sure I beg your pardon,\u201d I said, a little uneasy at her gaze. \u201cBut\nthat is just the trouble. I have forgotten. I\u2019ve forgotten everything.\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "She flouted my denial. She laughed deliciously at something she seemed\nto see in my face. \u201cI\u2019ve heard of you at times,\u201d she went on. \u201cYou\u2019re quite a big lawyer\nout West\u2014Denver, isn\u2019t it, or Los Angeles? Marian must be very proud of\nyou. You knew, I suppose, that I married six months after you did. You\nmay have seen it in the papers. The flowers alone cost two thousand\ndollars.\u201d She had mentioned fifteen years. Fifteen years is a long time. \u201cWould it be too late,\u201d I asked, somewhat timorously, \u201cto offer you\ncongratulations?\u201d \u201cNot if you dare do it,\u201d she answered, with such fine intrepidity that\nI was silent, and began to crease patterns on the cloth with my thumb\nnail. \u201cTell me one thing,\u201d she said, leaning toward me rather eagerly\u2014\u201ca\nthing I have wanted to know for many years\u2014just from a woman\u2019s\ncuriosity, of course\u2014have you ever dared since that night to touch,\nsmell or look at white roses\u2014at white roses wet with rain and dew?\u201d I took a sip of _cr\u00e8me de menthe_. \u201cIt would be useless, I suppose,\u201d I said, with a sigh, \u201cfor me to\nrepeat that I have no recollection at all about these things. My memory\nis completely at fault. I need not say how much I regret it.\u201d The lady rested her arms upon the table, and again her eyes disdained\nmy words and went traveling by their own route direct to my soul. She\nlaughed softly, with a strange quality in the sound\u2014it was a laugh of\nhappiness\u2014yes, and of content\u2014and of misery. I tried to look away from\nher. \u201cYou lie, Elwyn Bellford,\u201d she breathed, blissfully. \u201cOh, I know you\nlie!\u201d I gazed dully into the ferns.", "words": 289}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMy name is Edward Pinkhammer,\u201d I said. \u201cI came with the delegates to\nthe Druggists\u2019 National Convention. There is a movement on foot for\narranging a new position for the bottles of tartrate of antimony and\ntartrate of potash, in which, very likely, you would take little\ninterest.\u201d A shining landau stopped before the entrance. The lady rose. I took her\nhand, and bowed. \u201cI am deeply sorry,\u201d I said to her, \u201cthat I cannot remember. I could\nexplain, but fear you would not understand. You will not concede\nPinkhammer; and I really cannot at all conceive of the\u2014the roses and\nother things.\u201d \u201cGood-by, Mr. Bellford,\u201d she said, with her happy, sorrowful smile, as\nshe stepped into her carriage. I attended the theatre that night. When I returned to my hotel, a quiet\nman in dark clothes, who seemed interested in rubbing his finger nails\nwith a silk handkerchief, appeared, magically, at my side. \u201cMr. Pinkhammer,\u201d he said, giving the bulk of his attention to his\n forefinger, \u201cmay I request you to step aside with me for a little\n conversation? There is a room here.\u201d \u201cCertainly,\u201d I answered. He conducted me into a small, private parlor. A lady and a gentleman\nwere there. The lady, I surmised, would have been unusually\ngood-looking had her features not been clouded by an expression of keen\nworry and fatigue. She was of a style of figure and possessed coloring\nand features that were agreeable to my fancy. She was in a traveling\ndress; she fixed upon me an earnest look of extreme anxiety, and\npressed an unsteady hand to her bosom. I think she would have started\nforward, but the gentleman arrested her movement with an authoritative\nmotion of his hand. He then came, himself, to meet me. He was a man of\nforty, a little gray about the temples, and with a strong, thoughtful\nface.", "words": 313}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cBellford, old man,\u201d he said, cordially, \u201cI\u2019m glad to see you again. Of\ncourse we know everything is all right. I warned you, you know, that\nyou were overdoing it. Now, you\u2019ll go back with us, and be yourself\nagain in no time.\u201d I smiled ironically. \u201cI have been \u2018Bellforded\u2019 so often,\u201d I said, \u201cthat it has lost its\nedge. Still, in the end, it may grow wearisome. Would you be willing at\nall to entertain the hypothesis that my name is Edward Pinkhammer, and\nthat I never saw you before in my life?\u201d Before the man could reply a wailing cry came from the woman. She\nsprang past his detaining arm. \u201cElwyn!\u201d she sobbed, and cast herself\nupon me, and clung tight. \u201cElwyn,\u201d she cried again, \u201cdon\u2019t break my\nheart. I am your wife\u2014call my name once\u2014just once. I could see you dead\nrather than this way.\u201d I unwound her arms respectfully, but firmly. \u201cMadam,\u201d I said, severely, \u201cpardon me if I suggest that you accept a\nresemblance too precipitately. It is a pity,\u201d I went on, with an amused\nlaugh, as the thought occurred to me, \u201cthat this Bellford and I could\nnot be kept side by side upon the same shelf like tartrates of sodium\nand antimony for purposes of identification. In order to understand the\nallusion,\u201d I concluded airily, \u201cit may be necessary for you to keep an\neye on the proceedings of the Druggists\u2019 National Convention.\u201d The lady turned to her companion, and grasped his arm. \u201cWhat is it, Doctor Volney? Oh, what is it?\u201d she moaned. He led her to the door. \u201cGo to your room for a while,\u201d I heard him say. \u201cI will remain and talk\nwith him. His mind? No, I think not\u2014only a portion of the brain. Yes, I\nam sure he will recover. Go to your room and leave me with him.\u201d", "words": 313}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The lady disappeared. The man in dark clothes also went outside, still\nmanicuring himself in a thoughtful way. I think he waited in the hall. \u201cI would like to talk with you a while, Mr. Pinkhammer, if I may,\u201d said\nthe gentleman who remained. \u201cVery well, if you care to,\u201d I replied, \u201cand will excuse me if I take\nit comfortably; I am rather tired.\u201d I stretched myself upon a couch by\na window and lit a cigar. He drew a chair nearby. \u201cLet us speak to the point,\u201d he said, soothingly. \u201cYour name is not\nPinkhammer.\u201d \u201cI know that as well as you do,\u201d I said, coolly. \u201cBut a man must have a\nname of some sort. I can assure you that I do not extravagantly admire\nthe name of Pinkhammer. But when one christens one\u2019s self suddenly, the\nfine names do not seem to suggest themselves. But, suppose it had been\nScheringhausen or Scroggins! I think I did very well with Pinkhammer.\u201d \u201cYour name,\u201d said the other man, seriously, \u201cis Elwyn C. Bellford. You\nare one of the first lawyers in Denver. You are suffering from an\nattack of aphasia, which has caused you to forget your identity. The\ncause of it was over-application to your profession, and, perhaps, a\nlife too bare of natural recreation and pleasures. The lady who has\njust left the room is your wife.\u201d \u201cShe is what I would call a fine-looking woman,\u201d I said, after a\njudicial pause. \u201cI particularly admire the shade of brown in her hair.\u201d \u201cShe is a wife to be proud of. Since your disappearance, nearly two\nweeks ago, she has scarcely closed her eyes. We learned that you were\nin New York through a telegram sent by Isidore Newman, a traveling man\nfrom Denver. He said that he had met you in a hotel here, and that you\ndid not recognize him.\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 34, "title": "A RAMBLE IN APHASIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI think I remember the occasion,\u201d I said. \u201cThe fellow called me\n\u2018Bellford,\u2019 if I am not mistaken. But don\u2019t you think it about time,\nnow, for you to introduce yourself?\u201d \u201cI am Robert Volney\u2014Doctor Volney. I have been your close friend for\ntwenty years, and your physician for fifteen. I came with Mrs. Bellford\nto trace you as soon as we got the telegram. Try, Elwyn, old man\u2014try to\nremember!\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s the use to try?\u201d I asked, with a little frown. \u201cYou say you are\na physician. Is aphasia curable? When a man loses his memory does it\nreturn slowly, or suddenly?\u201d \u201cSometimes gradually and imperfectly; sometimes as suddenly as it\nwent.\u201d \u201cWill you undertake the treatment of my case, Doctor Volney?\u201d I asked. \u201cOld friend,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019ll do everything in my power, and will have\ndone everything that science can do to cure you.\u201d \u201cVery well,\u201d said I. \u201cThen you will consider that I am your patient.\nEverything is in confidence now\u2014professional confidence.\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d said Doctor Volney. I got up from the couch. Some one had set a vase of white roses on the\ncentre table\u2014a cluster of white roses, freshly sprinkled and fragrant.\nI threw them far out of the window, and then I laid myself upon the\ncouch again. \u201cIt will be best, Bobby,\u201d I said, \u201cto have this cure happen suddenly.\nI\u2019m rather tired of it all, anyway. You may go now and bring Marian in.\nBut, oh, Doc,\u201d I said, with a sigh, as I kicked him on the shin\u2014\u201cgood\nold Doc\u2014it was glorious!\u201d XIII", "words": 263}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The cities are full of pride,\n Challenging each to each\u2014\n This from her mountainside,\n That from her burthened beach. R. KIPLING. Fancy a novel about Chicago or Buffalo, let us say, or Nashville,\nTennessee! There are just three big cities in the United States that\nare \u201cstory cities\u201d\u2014New York, of course, New Orleans, and, best of the\nlot, San Francisco.\u2014FRANK NORRIS. East is East, and West is San Francisco, according to Californians.\nCalifornians are a race of people; they are not merely inhabitants of a\nState. They are the Southerners of the West. Now, Chicagoans are no\nless loyal to their city; but when you ask them why, they stammer and\nspeak of lake fish and the new Odd Fellows Building. But Californians\ngo into detail. Of course they have, in the climate, an argument that is good for half\nan hour while you are thinking of your coal bills and heavy underwear.\nBut as soon as they come to mistake your silence for conviction,\nmadness comes upon them, and they picture the city of the Golden Gate\nas the Bagdad of the New World. So far, as a matter of opinion, no\nrefutation is necessary. But, dear cousins all (from Adam and Eve\ndescended), it is a rash one who will lay his finger on the map and\nsay: \u201cIn this town there can be no romance\u2014what could happen here?\u201d\nYes, it is a bold and a rash deed to challenge in one sentence history,\nromance, and Rand and McNally. NASHVILLE\u2014A city, port of delivery, and the capital of the State of\nTennessee, is on the Cumberland River and on the N. C. & St. L. and the\n& N. railroads. This city is regarded as the most important\neducational centre in the South.", "words": 295}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I stepped off the train at 8 P.M. Having searched the thesaurus in vain\nfor adjectives, I must, as a substitution, hie me to comparison in the\nform of a recipe. Take a London fog 30 parts; malaria 10 parts; gas leaks 20 parts;\ndewdrops gathered in a brick yard at sunrise, 25 parts; odor of\nhoneysuckle 15 parts. Mix. The mixture will give you an approximate conception of a Nashville\ndrizzle. It is not so fragrant as a moth-ball nor as thick as pea-soup;\nbut \u2019tis enough\u2014\u2019twill serve. I went to a hotel in a tumbril. It required strong self-suppression for\nme to keep from climbing to the top of it and giving an imitation of\nSidney Carton. The vehicle was drawn by beasts of a bygone era and\ndriven by something dark and emancipated. I was sleepy and tired, so when I got to the hotel I hurriedly paid it\nthe fifty cents it demanded (with approximate lagniappe, I assure you).\nI knew its habits; and I did not want to hear it prate about its old\n\u201cmarster\u201d or anything that happened \u201cbefo\u2019 de wah.\u201d The hotel was one of the kind described as \u201crenovated.\u201d That means\n$20,000 worth of new marble pillars, tiling, electric lights and brass\ncuspidors in the lobby, and a new L. & N. time table and a lithograph\nof Lookout Mountain in each one of the great rooms above. The\nmanagement was without reproach, the attention full of exquisite\nSouthern courtesy, the service as slow as the progress of a snail and\nas good-humored as Rip Van Winkle. The food was worth traveling a\nthousand miles for. There is no other hotel in the world where you can\nget such chicken livers _en brochette_.", "words": 291}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At dinner I asked a Negro waiter if there was anything doing in town.\nHe pondered gravely for a minute, and then replied: \u201cWell, boss, I\ndon\u2019t really reckon there\u2019s anything at all doin\u2019 after sundown.\u201d Sundown had been accomplished; it had been drowned in the drizzle long\nbefore. So that spectacle was denied me. But I went forth upon the\nstreets in the drizzle to see what might be there. It is built on undulating grounds; and the streets are lighted by\nelectricity at a cost of $32,470 per annum. As I left the hotel there was a race riot. Down upon me charged a\ncompany of freedmen, or Arabs, or Zulus, armed with\u2014no, I saw with\nrelief that they were not rifles, but whips. And I saw dimly a caravan\nof black, clumsy vehicles; and at the reassuring shouts, \u201cKyar you\nanywhere in the town, boss, fuh fifty cents,\u201d I reasoned that I was\nmerely a \u201cfare\u201d instead of a victim. I walked through long streets, all leading uphill. I wondered how those\nstreets ever came down again. Perhaps they didn\u2019t until they were\n\u201cgraded.\u201d On a few of the \u201cmain streets\u201d I saw lights in stores here\nand there; saw street cars go by conveying worthy burghers hither and\nyon; saw people pass engaged in the art of conversation, and heard a\nburst of semi-lively laughter issuing from a soda-water and ice-cream\nparlor. The streets other than \u201cmain\u201d seemed to have enticed upon their\nborders houses consecrated to peace and domesticity. In many of them\nlights shone behind discreetly drawn window shades; in a few pianos\ntinkled orderly and irreproachable music. There was, indeed, little\n\u201cdoing.\u201d I wished I had come before sundown. So I returned to my hotel.", "words": 292}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In November, 1864, the Confederate General Hood advanced against\nNashville, where he shut up a National force under General Thomas. The\nlatter then sallied forth and defeated the Confederates in a terrible\nconflict. All my life I have heard of, admired, and witnessed the fine\nmarksmanship of the South in its peaceful conflicts in the\ntobacco-chewing regions. But in my hotel a surprise awaited me. There\nwere twelve bright, new, imposing, capacious brass cuspidors in the\ngreat lobby, tall enough to be called urns and so wide-mouthed that the\ncrack pitcher of a lady baseball team should have been able to throw a\nball into one of them at five paces distant. But, although a terrible\nbattle had raged and was still raging, the enemy had not suffered.\nBright, new, imposing, capacious, untouched, they stood. But, shades of\nJefferson Brick! the tile floor\u2014the beautiful tile floor! I could not\navoid thinking of the battle of Nashville, and trying to draw, as is my\nfoolish habit, some deductions about hereditary marksmanship. Here I first saw Major (by misplaced courtesy) Wentworth Caswell. I\nknew him for a type the moment my eyes suffered from the sight of him.\nA rat has no geographical habitat. My old friend, A. Tennyson, said, as\nhe so well said almost everything: Prophet, curse me the blabbing lip,\n And curse me the British vermin, the rat. Let us regard the word \u201cBritish\u201d as interchangeable _ad lib_. A rat is\na rat.", "words": 244}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "This man was hunting about the hotel lobby like a starved dog that had\nforgotten where he had buried a bone. He had a face of great acreage,\nred, pulpy, and with a kind of sleepy massiveness like that of Buddha.\nHe possessed one single virtue\u2014he was very smoothly shaven. The mark of\nthe beast is not indelible upon a man until he goes about with a\nstubble. I think that if he had not used his razor that day I would\nhave repulsed his advances, and the criminal calendar of the world\nwould have been spared the addition of one murder. I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major\nCaswell opened fire upon it. I had been observant enough to perceive\nthat the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles;\nso I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to\napologize to a noncombatant. He had the blabbing lip. In four minutes\nhe 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\nby profession or trade. I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the\nPrince Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and\nplug chewing. When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer. I slide a\nlittle lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another\nW\u00fcrzburger and wish that Longstreet had\u2014but what\u2019s the use?", "words": 247}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort\nSumter re-echoed. When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to\nhope. But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was\nonly a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.\nGenealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family\nmatters. He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and\nprofanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in\nthe land of Nod. By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure\nby noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I\nwould be bewildered into paying for them. But when they were down he\ncrashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar. Then, of course, another\nserving was obligatory. And when I had paid for that I took leave of\nhim brusquely; for I wanted no more of him. But before I had obtained\nmy release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received,\nand showed a handful of silver money. When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously: \u201cIf\nthat man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a\ncomplaint, we will have him ejected. He is a nuisance, a loafer, and\nwithout any known means of support, although he seems to have some\nmoney most the time. But we don\u2019t seem to be able to hit upon any means\nof throwing him out legally.\u201d", "words": 270}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy, no,\u201d said I, after some reflection; \u201cI don\u2019t see my way clear to\nmaking a complaint. But I would like to place myself on record as\nasserting that I do not care for his company. Your town,\u201d I continued,\n\u201cseems to be a quiet one. What manner of entertainment, adventure, or\nexcitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?\u201d \u201cWell, sir,\u201d said the clerk, \u201cthere will be a show here next Thursday.\nIt is\u2014I\u2019ll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room\nwith the ice water. Good night.\u201d After I went up to my room I looked out the window. It was only about\nten o\u2019clock, but I looked upon a silent town. The drizzle continued,\nspangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at\nthe Ladies\u2019 Exchange. \u201cA quiet place,\u201d I said to myself, as my first shoe struck the ceiling\nof the occupant of the room beneath mine. \u201cNothing of the life here\nthat gives color and variety to the cities in the East and West. Just a\ngood, ordinary, humdrum, business town.\u201d Nashville occupies a foremost place among the manufacturing centres of\nthe country. It is the fifth boot and shoe market in the United\nStates, the largest candy and cracker manufacturing city in the South,\nand does an enormous wholesale drygoods, grocery, and drug business. I must tell you how I came to be in Nashville, and I assure you the\ndigression brings as much tedium to me as it does to you. I was\ntraveling elsewhere on my own business, but I had a commission from a\nNorthern literary magazine to stop over there and establish a personal\nconnection between the publication and one of its contributors, Azalea\nAdair.", "words": 297}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Adair (there was no clue to the personality except the handwriting) had\nsent in some essays (lost art!) and poems that had made the editors\nswear approvingly over their one o\u2019clock luncheon. So they had\ncommissioned me to round up said Adair and corner by contract his or\nher output at two cents a word before some other publisher offered her\nten or twenty. At nine o\u2019clock the next morning, after my chicken livers _en\nbrochette_ (try them if you can find that hotel), I strayed out into\nthe drizzle, which was still on for an unlimited run. At the first\ncorner I came upon Uncle C\u00e6sar. He was a stalwart Negro, older than the\npyramids, with gray wool and a face that reminded me of Brutus, and a\nsecond afterwards of the late King Cettiwayo. He wore the most\nremarkable coat that I ever had seen or expect to see. It reached to\nhis ankles and had once been a Confederate gray in colors. But rain and\nsun and age had so variegated it that Joseph\u2019s coat, beside it, would\nhave faded to a pale monochrome. I must linger with that coat, for it\nhas to do with the story\u2014the story that is so long in coming, because\nyou can hardly expect anything to happen in Nashville.", "words": 218}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Once it must have been the military coat of an officer. The cape of it\nhad vanished, but all adown its front it had been frogged and tasseled\nmagnificently. But now the frogs and tassles were gone. In their stead\nhad been patiently stitched (I surmised by some surviving \u201cblack\nmammy\u201d) new frogs made of cunningly twisted common hempen twine. This\ntwine was frayed and disheveled. It must have been added to the coat as\na substitute for vanished splendors, with tasteless but painstaking\ndevotion, for it followed faithfully the curves of the long-missing\nfrogs. And, to complete the comedy and pathos of the garment, all its\nbuttons were gone save one. The second button from the top alone\nremained. The coat was fastened by other twine strings tied through the\nbuttonholes and other holes rudely pierced in the opposite side. There\nwas never such a weird garment so fantastically bedecked and of so many\nmottled hues. The lone button was the size of a half-dollar, made of\nyellow horn and sewed on with coarse twine. This Negro stood by a carriage so old that Ham himself might have\nstarted a hack line with it after he left the ark with the two animals\nhitched to it. As I approached he threw open the door, drew out a\nfeather duster, waved it without using it, and said in deep, rumbling\ntones: \u201cStep right in, suh; ain\u2019t a speck of dust in it\u2014jus\u2019 got back from a\nfuneral, suh.\u201d I inferred that on such gala occasions carriages were given an extra\ncleaning. I looked up and down the street and perceived that there was\nlittle choice among the vehicles for hire that lined the curb. I looked\nin my memorandum book for the address of Azalea Adair.", "words": 296}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI want to go to 861 Jessamine Street,\u201d I said, and was about to step\ninto the hack. But for an instant the thick, long, gorilla-like arm of\nthe old Negro barred me. On his massive and saturnine face a look of\nsudden suspicion and enmity flashed for a moment. Then, with quickly\nreturning conviction, he asked blandishingly: \u201cWhat are you gwine there\nfor, boss?\u201d \u201cWhat is it to you?\u201d I asked, a little sharply. \u201cNothin\u2019, suh, jus\u2019 nothin\u2019. Only it\u2019s a lonesome kind of part of town\nand few folks ever has business out there. Step right in. The seats is\nclean\u2014jes\u2019 got back from a funeral, suh.\u201d A mile and a half it must have been to our journey\u2019s end. I could hear\nnothing but the fearful rattle of the ancient hack over the uneven\nbrick paving; I could smell nothing but the drizzle, now further\nflavored with coal smoke and something like a mixture of tar and\noleander blossoms. All I could see through the streaming windows were\ntwo rows of dim houses. The city has an area of 10 square miles; 181 miles of streets, of which\n137 miles are paved; a system of water-works that cost $2,000,000, with\n77 miles of mains. Eight-sixty-one Jessamine Street was a decayed mansion. Thirty yards\nback from the street it stood, outmerged in a splendid grove of trees\nand untrimmed shrubbery. A row of box bushes overflowed and almost hid\nthe paling fence from sight; the gate was kept closed by a rope noose\nthat encircled the gate post and the first paling of the gate. But when\nyou got inside you saw that 861 was a shell, a shadow, a ghost of\nformer grandeur and excellence. But in the story, I have not yet got\ninside.", "words": 298}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When the hack had ceased from rattling and the weary quadrupeds came to\na rest I handed my jehu his fifty cents with an additional quarter,\nfeeling a glow of conscious generosity, as I did so. He refused it. \u201cIt\u2019s two dollars, suh,\u201d he said. \u201cHow\u2019s that?\u201d I asked. \u201cI plainly heard you call out at the hotel:\n\u2018Fifty cents to any part of the town.\u2019\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s two dollars, suh,\u201d he repeated obstinately. \u201cIt\u2019s a long ways\nfrom the hotel.\u201d \u201cIt is within the city limits and well within them.\u201d I argued. \u201cDon\u2019t\nthink that you have picked up a greenhorn Yankee. Do you see those\nhills over there?\u201d I went on, pointing toward the east (I could not see\nthem, myself, for the drizzle); \u201cwell, I was born and raised on their\nother side. You old fool nigger, can\u2019t you tell people from other\npeople when you see \u2019em?\u201d The grim face of King Cettiwayo softened. \u201cIs you from the South, suh?\nI reckon it was them shoes of yourn fooled me. They is somethin\u2019 sharp\nin the toes for a Southern gen\u2019l\u2019man to wear.\u201d \u201cThen the charge is fifty cents, I suppose?\u201d said I inexorably. His former expression, a mingling of cupidity and hostility, returned,\nremained ten seconds, and vanished. \u201cBoss,\u201d he said, \u201cfifty cents is right; but I _needs_ two dollars, suh;\nI\u2019m _obleeged_ to have two dollars. I ain\u2019t _demandin\u2019_ it now, suh;\nafter I know whar you\u2019s from; I\u2019m jus\u2019 sayin\u2019 that I _has_ to have two\ndollars to-night, and business is mighty po\u2019.\u201d Peace and confidence settled upon his heavy features. He had been\nluckier than he had hoped. Instead of having picked up a greenhorn,\nignorant of rates, he had come upon an inheritance. \u201cYou confounded old rascal,\u201d I said, reaching down to my pocket, \u201cyou\nought to be turned over to the police.\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "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\none of them had seen parlous times. Its upper right-hand corner was\nmissing, and it had been torn through the middle, but joined again. A\nstrip of blue tissue paper, pasted over the split, preserved its\nnegotiability. Enough of the African bandit for the present: I left him happy, lifted\nthe rope and opened a creaky gate. The house, as I said, was a shell. A paint brush had not touched it in\ntwenty years. I could not see why a strong wind should not have bowled\nit over like a house of cards until I looked again at the trees that\nhugged it close\u2014the trees that saw the battle of Nashville and still\ndrew their protecting branches around it against storm and enemy and\ncold. Azalea Adair, fifty years old, white-haired, a descendant of the\ncavaliers, as thin and frail as the house she lived in, robed in the\ncheapest and cleanest dress I ever saw, with an air as simple as a\nqueen\u2019s, received me. The reception room seemed a mile square, because there was nothing in\nit except some rows of books, on unpainted white-pine bookshelves, a\ncracked marble-top table, a rag rug, a hairless horsehair sofa and two\nor three chairs. Yes, there was a picture on the wall, a colored crayon\ndrawing of a cluster of pansies. I looked around for the portrait of\nAndrew Jackson and the pinecone hanging basket but they were not there.", "words": 269}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Azalea Adair and I had conversation, a little of which will be repeated\nto you. She was a product of the old South, gently nurtured in the\nsheltered life. Her learning was not broad, but was deep and of\nsplendid originality in its somewhat narrow scope. She had been\neducated at home, and her knowledge of the world was derived from\ninference and by inspiration. Of such is the precious, small group of\nessayists made. While she talked to me I kept brushing my fingers,\ntrying, unconsciously, to rid them guiltily of the absent dust from the\nhalf-calf backs of Lamb, Chaucer, Hazlitt, Marcus Aurelius, Montaigne\nand Hood. She was exquisite, she was a valuable discovery. Nearly\neverybody nowadays knows too much\u2014oh, so much too much\u2014of real life. I could perceive clearly that Azalea Adair was very poor. A house and a\ndress she had, not much else, I fancied. So, divided between my duty to\nthe magazine and my loyalty to the poets and essayists who fought\nThomas in the valley of the Cumberland, I listened to her voice, which\nwas like a harpsichord\u2019s, and found that I could not speak of\ncontracts. In the presence of the nine Muses and the three Graces one\nhesitated to lower the topic to two cents. There would have to be\nanother colloquy after I had regained my commercialism. But I spoke of\nmy mission, and three o\u2019clock of the next afternoon was set for the\ndiscussion of the business proposition. \u201cYour town,\u201d I said, as I began to make ready to depart (which is the\ntime for smooth generalities), \u201cseems to be a quiet, sedate place. A\nhome town, I should say, where few things out of the ordinary ever\nhappen.\u201d It carries on an extensive trade in stoves and hollow ware with the\nWest and South, and its flouring mills have a daily capacity of more\nthan 2,000 barrels.", "words": 319}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Azalea Adair seemed to reflect. \u201cI have never thought of it that way,\u201d she said, with a kind of sincere\nintensity that seemed to belong to her. \u201cIsn\u2019t it in the still, quiet\nplaces that things do happen? I fancy that when God began to create the\nearth on the first Monday morning one could have leaned out one\u2019s\nwindow and heard the drops of mud splashing from His trowel as He built\nup the everlasting hills. What did the noisiest project in the world\u2014I\nmean the building of the Tower of Babel\u2014result in finally? A page and a\nhalf of Esperanto in the _North American Review_.\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d said I platitudinously, \u201chuman nature is the same\neverywhere; but there is more color\u2014er\u2014more drama and movement\nand\u2014er\u2014romance in some cities than in others.\u201d", "words": 133}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOn the surface,\u201d said Azalea Adair. \u201cI have traveled many times around\nthe world in a golden airship wafted on two wings\u2014print and dreams. I\nhave seen (on one of my imaginary tours) the Sultan of Turkey bowstring\nwith his own hands one of his wives who had uncovered her face in\npublic. I have seen a man in Nashville tear up his theatre tickets\nbecause his wife was going out with her face covered\u2014with rice powder.\nIn San Francisco\u2019s Chinatown I saw the slave girl Sing Yee dipped\nslowly, inch by inch, in boiling almond oil to make her swear she would\nnever see her American lover again. She gave in when the boiling oil\nhad reached three inches above her knee. At a euchre party in East\nNashville the other night I saw Kitty Morgan cut dead by seven of her\nschoolmates and lifelong friends because she had married a house\npainter. The boiling oil was sizzling as high as her heart; but I wish\nyou could have seen the fine little smile that she carried from table\nto table. Oh, yes, it is a humdrum town. Just a few miles of red brick\nhouses and mud and lumber yards.\u201d Some one knocked hollowly at the back of the house. Azalea Adair\nbreathed a soft apology and went to investigate the sound. She came\nback in three minutes with brightened eyes, a faint flush on her\ncheeks, and ten years lifted from her shoulders. \u201cYou must have a cup of tea before you go,\u201d she said, \u201cand a sugar\ncake.\u201d She reached and shook a little iron bell. In shuffled a small Negro\ngirl about twelve, barefoot, not very tidy, glowering at me with thumb\nin mouth and bulging eyes.", "words": 292}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Azalea Adair opened a tiny, worn purse and drew out a dollar bill, a\ndollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn in two\npieces, and pasted together again with a strip of blue tissue paper. It\nwas one of the bills I had given the piratical Negro\u2014there was no doubt\nabout it. \u201cGo up to Mr. Baker\u2019s store on the corner, Impy,\u201d she said, handing the\ngirl the dollar bill, \u201cand get a quarter of a pound of tea\u2014the kind he\nalways sends me\u2014and ten cents worth of sugar cakes. Now, hurry. The\nsupply of tea in the house happens to be exhausted,\u201d she explained to\nme. Impy left by the back way. Before the scrape of her hard, bare feet had\ndied away on the back porch, a wild shriek\u2014I was sure it was\nhers\u2014filled the hollow house. Then the deep, gruff tones of an angry\nman\u2019s voice mingled with the girl\u2019s further squeals and unintelligible\nwords. Azalea Adair rose without surprise or emotion and disappeared. For two\nminutes I heard the hoarse rumble of the man\u2019s voice; then something\nlike an oath and a slight scuffle, and she returned calmly to her\nchair. \u201cThis is a roomy house,\u201d she said, \u201cand I have a tenant for part of it.\nI am sorry to have to rescind my invitation to tea. It was impossible\nto get the kind I always use at the store. Perhaps to-morrow, Mr. Baker\nwill be able to supply me.\u201d I was sure that Impy had not had time to leave the house. I inquired\nconcerning street-car lines and took my leave. After I was well on my\nway I remembered that I had not learned Azalea Adair\u2019s name. But\nto-morrow would do.", "words": 290}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "That same day I started in on the course of iniquity that this\nuneventful city forced upon me. I was in the town only two days, but in\nthat time I managed to lie shamelessly by telegraph, and to be an\naccomplice\u2014after the fact, if that is the correct legal term\u2014to a\nmurder. As I rounded the corner nearest my hotel the Afrite coachman of the\npolychromatic, nonpareil coat seized me, swung open the dungeony door\nof his peripatetic sarcophagus, flirted his feather duster and began\nhis ritual: \u201cStep right in, boss. Carriage is clean\u2014jus\u2019 got back from\na funeral. Fifty cents to any\u2014\u201d And then he knew me and grinned broadly. \u201c\u2019Scuse me, boss; you is de\ngen\u2019l\u2019man what rid out with me dis mawnin\u2019. Thank you kindly, suh.\u201d \u201cI am going out to 861 again to-morrow afternoon at three,\u201d said I,\n\u201cand if you will be here, I\u2019ll let you drive me. So you know Miss\nAdair?\u201d I concluded, thinking of my dollar bill. \u201cI belonged to her father, Judge Adair, suh,\u201d he replied. \u201cI judge that she is pretty poor,\u201d I said. \u201cShe hasn\u2019t much money to\nspeak of, has she?\u201d For an instant I looked again at the fierce countenance of King\nCettiwayo, and then he changed back to an extortionate old Negro hack\ndriver. \u201cShe ain\u2019t gwine to starve, suh,\u201d he said slowly. \u201cShe has reso\u2019ces,\nsuh; she has reso\u2019ces.\u201d \u201cI shall pay you fifty cents for the trip,\u201d said I. \u201cDat is puffeckly correct, suh,\u201d he answered humbly. \u201cI jus\u2019 _had_ to\nhave dat two dollars dis mawnin\u2019, boss.\u201d I went to the hotel and lied by electricity. I wired the magazine: \u201cA.\nAdair holds out for eight cents a word.\u201d The answer that came back was: \u201cGive it to her quick you duffer.\u201d", "words": 300}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Just before dinner \u201cMajor\u201d Wentworth Caswell bore down upon me with the\ngreetings of a long-lost friend. I have seen few men whom I have so\ninstantaneously hated, and of whom it was so difficult to be rid. I was\nstanding at the bar when he invaded me; therefore I could not wave the\nwhite ribbon in his face. I would have paid gladly for the drinks,\nhoping, thereby, to escape another; but he was one of those despicable,\nroaring, advertising bibbers who must have brass bands and fireworks\nattend upon every cent that they waste in their follies. With an air of producing millions he drew two one-dollar bills from a\npocket and dashed one of them upon the bar. I looked once more at the\ndollar bill with the upper right-hand corner missing, torn through the\nmiddle, and patched with a strip of blue tissue paper. It was my dollar\nbill again. It could have been no other. I went up to my room. The drizzle and the monotony of a dreary,\neventless Southern town had made me tired and listless. I remember that\njust before I went to bed I mentally disposed of the mysterious dollar\nbill (which might have formed the clew to a tremendously fine detective\nstory of San Francisco) by saying to myself sleepily: \u201cSeems as if a\nlot of people here own stock in the Hack-Driver\u2019s Trust. Pays dividends\npromptly, too. Wonder if\u2014\u201d Then I fell asleep. King Cettiwayo was at his post the next day, and rattled my bones over\nthe stones out to 861. He was to wait and rattle me back again when I\nwas ready.", "words": 276}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Azalea Adair looked paler and cleaner and frailer than she had looked\non the day before. After she had signed the contract at eight cents per\nword she grew still paler and began to slip out of her chair. Without\nmuch trouble I managed to get her up on the antediluvian horsehair sofa\nand then I ran out to the sidewalk and yelled to the coffee-colored\nPirate to bring a doctor. With a wisdom that I had not expected in him,\nhe abandoned his team and struck off up the street afoot, realizing the\nvalue of speed. In ten minutes he returned with a grave, gray-haired\nand capable man of medicine. In a few words (worth much less than eight\ncents each) I explained to him my presence in the hollow house of\nmystery. He bowed with stately understanding, and turned to the old\nNegro. \u201cUncle C\u00e6sar,\u201d he said calmly, \u201cRun up to my house and ask Miss Lucy to\ngive you a cream pitcher full of fresh milk and half a tumbler of port\nwine. And hurry back. Don\u2019t drive\u2014run. I want you to get back sometime\nthis week.\u201d It occurred to me that Dr. Merriman also felt a distrust as to the\nspeeding powers of the land-pirate\u2019s steeds. After Uncle C\u00e6sar was\ngone, lumberingly, but swiftly, up the street, the doctor looked me\nover with great politeness and as much careful calculation until he had\ndecided that I might do. \u201cIt is only a case of insufficient nutrition,\u201d he said. \u201cIn other\nwords, the result of poverty, pride, and starvation. Mrs. Caswell has\nmany devoted friends who would be glad to aid her, but she will accept\nnothing except from that old Negro, Uncle C\u00e6sar, who was once owned by\nher family.\u201d \u201cMrs. Caswell!\u201d said I, in surprise. And then I looked at the contract\nand saw that she had signed it \u201cAzalea Adair Caswell.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI thought she was Miss Adair,\u201d I said. \u201cMarried to a drunken, worthless loafer, sir,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cIt is\nsaid that he robs her even of the small sums that her old servant\ncontributes toward her support.\u201d When the milk and wine had been brought the doctor soon revived Azalea\nAdair. She sat up and talked of the beauty of the autumn leaves that\nwere then in season, and their height of color. She referred lightly to\nher fainting seizure as the outcome of an old palpitation of the heart.\nImpy fanned her as she lay on the sofa. The doctor was due elsewhere,\nand I followed him to the door. I told him that it was within my power\nand intentions to make a reasonable advance of money to Azalea Adair on\nfuture contributions to the magazine, and he seemed pleased. \u201cBy the way,\u201d he said, \u201cperhaps you would like to know that you have\nhad royalty for a coachman. Old C\u00e6sar\u2019s grandfather was a king in\nCongo. C\u00e6sar himself has royal ways, as you may have observed.\u201d As the doctor was moving off I heard Uncle C\u00e6sar\u2019s voice inside: \u201cDid\nhe get bofe of dem two dollars from you, Mis\u2019 Zalea?\u201d \u201cYes, C\u00e6sar,\u201d I heard Azalea Adair answer weakly. And then I went in\nand concluded business negotiations with our contributor. I assumed the\nresponsibility of advancing fifty dollars, putting it as a necessary\nformality in binding our bargain. And then Uncle C\u00e6sar drove me back to\nthe hotel. Here ends all of the story as far as I can testify as a witness. The\nrest must be only bare statements of facts.", "words": 276}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At about six o\u2019clock I went out for a stroll. Uncle C\u00e6sar was at his\ncorner. He threw open the door of his carriage, flourished his duster\nand began his depressing formula: \u201cStep right in, suh. Fifty cents to\nanywhere in the city\u2014hack\u2019s puffickly clean, suh\u2014jus\u2019 got back from a\nfuneral\u2014\u201d And then he recognized me. I think his eyesight was getting bad. His\ncoat had taken on a few more faded shades of color, the twine strings\nwere more frayed and ragged, the last remaining button\u2014the button of\nyellow horn\u2014was gone. A motley descendant of kings was Uncle C\u00e6sar! About two hours later I saw an excited crowd besieging the front of a\ndrug store. In a desert where nothing happens this was manna; so I\nwedged my way inside. On an extemporized couch of empty boxes and\nchairs was stretched the mortal corporeality of Major Wentworth\nCaswell. A doctor was testing him for the immortal ingredient. His\ndecision was that it was conspicuous by its absence. The erstwhile Major had been found dead on a dark street and brought by\ncurious and ennuied citizens to the drug store. The late human being\nhad been engaged in terrific battle\u2014the details showed that. Loafer and\nreprobate though he had been, he had been also a warrior. But he had\nlost. His hands were yet clinched so tightly that his fingers would not\nbe opened. The gentle citizens who had known him stood about and\nsearched their vocabularies to find some good words, if it were\npossible, to speak of him. One kind-looking man said, after much\nthought: \u201cWhen \u2018Cas\u2019 was about fo\u2019teen he was one of the best spellers\nin school.\u201d", "words": 281}, {"story": 35, "title": "A MUNICIPAL REPORT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "While I stood there the fingers of the right hand of \u201cthe man that was\u201d\nwhich hung down the side of a white pine box, relaxed, and dropped\nsomething at my feet. I covered it with one foot quietly, and a little\nlater on I picked it up and pocketed it. I reasoned that in his last\nstruggle his hand must have seized that object unwittingly and held it\nin a death grip. At the hotel that night the main topic of conversation, with the\npossible exceptions of politics and prohibition, was the demise of\nMajor Caswell. I heard one man say to a group of listeners: \u201cIn my opinion, gentlemen, Caswell was murdered by some of these\nno-account niggers for his money. He had fifty dollars this afternoon\nwhich he showed to several gentlemen in the hotel. When he was found\nthe money was not on his person.\u201d I left the city the next morning at nine, and as the train was crossing\nthe bridge over the Cumberland River I took out of my pocket a yellow\nhorn overcoat button the size of a fifty-cent piece, with frayed ends\nof coarse twine hanging from it, and cast it out of the window into the\nslow, muddy waters below. _I wonder what\u2019s doing in Buffalo!_ XIV", "words": 216}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "If you are a philosopher you can do this thing: you can go to the top\nof a high building, look down upon your fellow-men 300 feet below, and\ndespise them as insects. Like the irresponsible black waterbugs on\nsummer ponds, they crawl and circle and hustle about idiotically\nwithout aim or purpose. They do not even move with the admirable\nintelligence of ants, for ants always know when they are going home.\nThe ant is of a lowly station, but he will often reach home and get his\nslippers on while you are left at your elevated station. Man, then, to the housetopped philosopher, appears to be but a\ncreeping, contemptible beetle. Brokers, poets, millionaires,\nbootblacks, beauties, hod-carriers and politicians become little black\nspecks dodging bigger black specks in streets no wider than your thumb. From this high view the city itself becomes degraded to an\nunintelligible mass of distorted buildings and impossible perspectives;\nthe revered ocean is a duck pond; the earth itself a lost golf ball.\nAll the minutiae of life are gone. The philosopher gazes into the\ninfinite heavens above him, and allows his soul to expand to the\ninfluence of his new view. He feels that he is the heir to Eternity and\nthe child of Time. Space, too, should be his by the right of his\nimmortal heritage, and he thrills at the thought that some day his kind\nshall traverse those mysterious aerial roads between planet and planet.\nThe tiny world beneath his feet upon which this towering structure of\nsteel rests as a speck of dust upon a Himalayan mountain\u2014it is but one\nof a countless number of such whirling atoms. What are the ambitions,\nthe achievements, the paltry conquests and loves of those restless\nblack insects below compared with the serene and awful immensity of the\nuniverse that lies above and around their insignificant city?", "words": 314}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It is guaranteed that the philosopher will have these thoughts. They\nhave been expressly compiled from the philosophies of the world and set\ndown with the proper interrogation point at the end of them to\nrepresent the invariable musings of deep thinkers on high places. And\nwhen the philosopher takes the elevator down his mind is broader, his\nheart is at peace, and his conception of the cosmogony of creation is\nas wide as the buckle of Orion\u2019s summer belt. But if your name happened to be Daisy, and you worked in an Eighth\nAvenue candy store and lived in a little cold hall bedroom, five feet\nby eight, and earned $6 per week, and ate ten-cent lunches and were\nnineteen years old, and got up at 6.30 and worked till 9, and never had\nstudied philosophy, maybe things wouldn\u2019t look that way to you from the\ntop of a skyscraper. Two sighed for the hand of Daisy, the unphilosophical. One was Joe, who\nkept the smallest store in New York. It was about the size of a\ntool-box of the D. P. W., and was stuck like a swallow\u2019s nest against a\ncorner of a down-town skyscraper. Its stock consisted of fruit,\ncandies, newspapers, song books, cigarettes, and lemonade in season.\nWhen stern winter shook his congealed locks and Joe had to move himself\nand the fruit inside, there was exactly room in the store for the\nproprietor, his wares, a stove the size of a vinegar cruet, and one\ncustomer. Joe was not of the nation that keeps us forever in a furore with fugues\nand fruit. He was a capable American youth who was laying by money, and\nwanted Daisy to help him spend it. Three times he had asked her. \u201cI got money saved up, Daisy,\u201d was his love song; \u201cand you know how bad\nI want you. That store of mine ain\u2019t very big, but\u2014\u201d", "words": 320}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh, ain\u2019t it?\u201d would be the antiphony of the unphilosophical one.\n\u201cWhy, I heard Wanamaker\u2019s was trying to get you to sublet part of your\nfloor space to them for next year.\u201d Daisy passed Joe\u2019s corner every morning and evening. \u201cHello, Two-by-Four!\u201d was her usual greeting. \u201cSeems to me your store\nlooks emptier. You must have sold a pack of chewing gum.\u201d \u201cAin\u2019t much room in here, sure,\u201d Joe would answer, with his slow grin,\n\u201cexcept for you, Daise. Me and the store are waitin\u2019 for you whenever\nyou\u2019ll take us. Don\u2019t you think you might before long?\u201d \u201cStore!\u201d\u2014a fine scorn was expressed by Daisy\u2019s uptilted nose\u2014\u201csardine\nbox! Waitin\u2019 for me, you say? Gee! you\u2019d have to throw out about a\nhundred pounds of candy before I could get inside of it, Joe.\u201d \u201cI wouldn\u2019t mind an even swap like that,\u201d said Joe, complimentary. Daisy\u2019s existence was limited in every way. She had to walk sideways\nbetween the counter and the shelves in the candy store. In her own hall\nbedroom coziness had been carried close to cohesiveness. The walls were\nso near to one another that the paper on them made a perfect Babel of\nnoise. She could light the gas with one hand and close the door with\nthe other without taking her eyes off the reflection of her brown\npompadour in the mirror. She had Joe\u2019s picture in a gilt frame on the\ndresser, and sometimes\u2014but her next thought would always be of Joe\u2019s\nfunny little store tacked like a soap box to the corner of that great\nbuilding, and away would go her sentiment in a breeze of laughter.", "words": 273}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Daisy\u2019s other suitor followed Joe by several months. He came to board\nin the house where she lived. His name was Dabster, and he was a\nphilosopher. Though young, attainments stood out upon him like\ncontinental labels on a Passaic (N. J.) suit-case. Knowledge he had\nkidnapped from cyclopedias and handbooks of useful information; but as\nfor wisdom, when she passed he was left sniffling in the road without\nso much as the number of her motor car. He could and would tell you the\nproportion of water and muscle-making properties of peas and veal, the\nshortest verse in the Bible, the number of pounds of shingle nails\nrequired to fasten 256 shingles laid four inches to the weather, the\npopulation of Kankakee, Ill., the theories of Spinoza, the name of Mr.\nH. McKay Twombly\u2019s second hall footman, the length of the Hoosac\nTunnel, the best time to set a hen, the salary of the railway\npost-office messenger between Driftwood and Red Bank Furnace, Pa., and\nthe number of bones in the foreleg of a cat. The weight of learning was no handicap to Dabster. His statistics were\nthe sprigs of parsley with which he garnished the feast of small talk\nthat he would set before you if he conceived that to be your taste. And\nagain he used them as breastworks in foraging at the boardinghouse.\nFiring at you a volley of figures concerning the weight of a lineal\nfoot of bar-iron 5 \u00d7 2\u00be inches, and the average annual rainfall at Fort\nSnelling, Minn., he would transfix with his fork the best piece of\nchicken on the dish while you were trying to rally sufficiently to ask\nhim weakly why does a hen cross the road.", "words": 288}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Thus, brightly armed, and further equipped with a measure of good\nlooks, of a hair-oily, shopping-district-at-three-in-the-afternoon\nkind, it seems that Joe, of the Lilliputian emporium, had a rival\nworthy of his steel. But Joe carried no steel. There wouldn\u2019t have been\nroom in his store to draw it if he had. One Saturday afternoon, about four o\u2019clock, Daisy and Mr. Dabster\nstopped before Joe\u2019s booth. Dabster wore a silk hat, and\u2014well, Daisy\nwas a woman, and that hat had no chance to get back in its box until\nJoe had seen it. A stick of pineapple chewing gum was the ostensible\nobject of the call. Joe supplied it through the open side of his store.\nHe did not pale or falter at sight of the hat. \u201cMr. Dabster\u2019s going to take me on top of the building to observe the\nview,\u201d said Daisy, after she had introduced her admirers. \u201cI never was\non a skyscraper. I guess it must be awfully nice and funny up there.\u201d \u201cH\u2019m!\u201d said Joe. \u201cThe panorama,\u201d said Mr. Dabster, \u201cexposed to the gaze from the top of\na lofty building is not only sublime, but instructive. Miss Daisy has a\ndecided pleasure in store for her.\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s windy up there, too, as well as here,\u201d said Joe. \u201cAre you dressed\nwarm enough, Daise?\u201d \u201cSure thing! I\u2019m all lined,\u201d said Daisy, smiling slyly at his clouded\nbrow. \u201cYou look just like a mummy in a case, Joe. Ain\u2019t you just put in\nan invoice of a pint of peanuts or another apple? Your stock looks\nawful over-stocked.\u201d Daisy giggled at her favorite joke; and Joe had to smile with her.", "words": 274}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYour quarters are somewhat limited, Mr.\u2014er\u2014er,\u201d remarked Dabster, \u201cin\ncomparison with the size of this building. I understand the area of its\nside to be about 340 by 100 feet. That would make you occupy a\nproportionate space as if half of Beloochistan were placed upon a\nterritory as large as the United States east of the Rocky Mountains,\nwith the Province of Ontario and Belgium added.\u201d \u201cIs that so, sport?\u201d said Joe, genially. \u201cYou are Weisenheimer on\nfigures, all right. How many square pounds of baled hay do you think a\njackass could eat if he stopped brayin\u2019 long enough to keep still a\nminute and five eighths?\u201d A few minutes later Daisy and Mr. Dabster stepped from an elevator to\nthe top floor of the skyscraper. Then up a short, steep stairway and\nout upon the roof. Dabster led her to the parapet so she could look\ndown at the black dots moving in the street below. \u201cWhat are they?\u201d she asked, trembling. She had never been on a height\nlike this before. And then Dabster must needs play the philosopher on the tower, and\nconduct her soul forth to meet the immensity of space. \u201cBipeds,\u201d he said, solemnly. \u201cSee what they become even at the small\nelevation of 340 feet\u2014mere crawling insects going to and fro at\nrandom.\u201d \u201cOh, they ain\u2019t anything of the kind,\u201d exclaimed Daisy,\nsuddenly\u2014\u201cthey\u2019re folks! I saw an automobile. Oh, gee! are we that high\nup?\u201d \u201cWalk over this way,\u201d said Dabster. He showed her the great city lying like an orderly array of toys far\nbelow, starred here and there, early as it was, by the first beacon\nlights of the winter afternoon. And then the bay and sea to the south\nand east vanishing mysteriously into the sky. \u201cI don\u2019t like it,\u201d declared Daisy, with troubled blue eyes. \u201cSay we go\ndown.\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But the philosopher was not to be denied his opportunity. He would let\nher behold the grandeur of his mind, the half-nelson he had on the\ninfinite, and the memory he had for statistics. And then she would\nnevermore be content to buy chewing gum at the smallest store in New\nYork. And so he began to prate of the smallness of human affairs, and\nhow that even so slight a removal from earth made man and his works\nlook like one tenth part of a dollar thrice computed. And that one\nshould consider the sidereal system and the maxims of Epictetus and be\ncomforted. \u201cYou don\u2019t carry me with you,\u201d said Daisy. \u201cSay, I think it\u2019s awful to\nbe up so high that folks look like fleas. One of them we saw might have\nbeen Joe. Why, Jiminy! we might as well be in New Jersey! Say, I\u2019m\nafraid up here!\u201d The philosopher smiled fatuously. \u201cThe earth,\u201d said he, \u201cis itself only as a grain of wheat in space.\nLook up there.\u201d Daisy gazed upward apprehensively. The short day was spent and the\nstars were coming out above. \u201cYonder star,\u201d said Dabster, \u201cis Venus, the evening star. She is\n66,000,000 miles from the sun.\u201d \u201cFudge!\u201d said Daisy, with a brief flash of spirit, \u201cwhere do you think\nI come from\u2014Brooklyn? Susie Price, in our store\u2014her brother sent her a\nticket to go to San Francisco\u2014that\u2019s only three thousand miles.\u201d The philosopher smiled indulgently.", "words": 244}, {"story": 36, "title": "PSYCHE AND THE PSKYSCRAPER", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOur world,\u201d he said, \u201cis 91,000,000 miles from the sun. There are\neighteen stars of the first magnitude that are 211,000 times further\nfrom us than the sun is. If one of them should be extinguished it would\nbe three years before we would see its light go out. There are six\nthousand stars of the sixth magnitude. It takes thirty-six years for\nthe light of one of them to reach the earth. With an eighteen-foot\ntelescope we can see 43,000,000 stars, including those of the\nthirteenth magnitude, whose light takes 2,700 years to reach us. Each\nof these stars\u2014\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re lyin\u2019,\u201d cried Daisy, angrily. \u201cYou\u2019re tryin\u2019 to scare me. And\nyou have; I want to go down!\u201d She stamped her foot. \u201cArcturus\u2014\u201d began the philosopher, soothingly, but he was interrupted\nby a demonstration out of the vastness of the nature that he was\nendeavoring to portray with his memory instead of his heart. For to the\nheart-expounder of nature the stars were set in the firmament expressly\nto give soft light to lovers wandering happily beneath them; and if you\nstand tiptoe some September night with your sweetheart on your arm you\ncan almost touch them with your hand. Three years for their light to\nreach us, indeed! Out of the west leaped a meteor, lighting the roof of the skyscraper\nalmost to midday. Its fiery parabola was limned against the sky toward\nthe east. It hissed as it went, and Daisy screamed. \u201cTake me down,\u201d she cried, vehemently, \u201cyou\u2014you mental arithmetic!\u201d Dabster got her to the elevator, and inside of it. She was wild-eyed,\nand she shuddered when the express made its debilitating drop. Outside the revolving door of the skyscraper the philosopher lost her.\nShe vanished; and he stood, bewildered, without figures or statistics\nto aid him.", "words": 300}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Without a doubt much of the spirit and genius of the Caliph Harun Al\nRashid descended to the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. Quigg\u2019s restaurant is in Fourth Avenue\u2014that street that the city seems\nto have forgotten in its growth. Fourth Avenue\u2014born and bred in the\nBowery\u2014staggers northward full of good resolutions. Where it crosses Fourteenth Street it struts for a brief moment proudly\nin the glare of the museums and cheap theatres. It may yet become a fit\nmate for its high-born sister boulevard to the west, or its roaring,\npolyglot, broad-waisted cousin to the east. It passes Union Square; and\nhere the hoofs of the dray horses seem to thunder in unison, recalling\nthe tread of marching hosts\u2014Hooray! But now come the silent and\nterrible mountains\u2014buildings square as forts, high as the clouds,\nshutting out the sky, where thousands of slaves bend over desks all\nday. On the ground floors are only little fruit shops and laundries and\nbook shops, where you see copies of \u201cLittell\u2019s Living Age\u201d and G. W. M.\nReynold\u2019s novels in the windows. And next\u2014poor Fourth Avenue!\u2014the\nstreet glides into a mediaeval solitude. On each side are shops devoted\nto \u201cAntiques.\u201d Let us say it is night. Men in rusty armor stand in the windows and\nmenace the hurrying cars with raised, rusty iron gauntlets. Hauberks\nand helms, blunderbusses, Cromwellian breastplates, matchlocks,\ncreeses, and the swords and daggers of an army of dead-and-gone\ngallants gleam dully in the ghostly light. Here and there from a corner\nsaloon (lit with Jack-o\u2019-lanterns or phosphorus), stagger forth\nshuddering, home-bound citizens, nerved by the tankards within to their\nfearsome journey adown that eldrich avenue lined with the bloodstained\nweapons of the fighting dead. What street could live inclosed by these\nmortuary relics, and trod by these spectral citizens in whose sunken\nhearts scarce one good whoop or tra-la-la remained?", "words": 312}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Not Fourth Avenue. Not after the tinsel but enlivening glories of the\nLittle Rialto\u2014not after the echoing drum-beats of Union Square. There\nneed be no tears, ladies and gentlemen; \u2019tis but the suicide of a\nstreet. With a shriek and a crash Fourth Avenue dives headlong into the\ntunnel at Thirty-fourth and is never seen again. Near the sad scene of the thoroughfare\u2019s dissolution stood the modest\nrestaurant of Quigg. It stands there yet if you care to view its\ncrumbling red-brick front, its show window heaped with oranges,\ntomatoes, layer cakes, pies, canned asparagus\u2014its papier-m\u00e2ch\u00e9 lobster\nand two Maltese kittens asleep on a bunch of lettuce\u2014if you care to sit\nat one of the little tables upon whose cloth has been traced in the\nyellowest of coffee stains the trail of the Japanese advance\u2014to sit\nthere with one eye on your umbrella and the other upon the bogus bottle\nfrom which you drop the counterfeit sauce foisted upon us by the cursed\ncharlatan who assumes to be our dear old lord and friend, the \u201cNobleman\nin India.\u201d Quigg\u2019s title came through his mother. One of her ancestors was a\nMargravine of Saxony. His father was a Tammany brave. On account of the\ndilution of his heredity he found that he could neither become a\nreigning potentate nor get a job in the City Hall. So he opened a\nrestaurant. He was a man full of thought and reading. The business gave\nhim a living, though he gave it little attention. One side of his house\nbequeathed to him a poetic and romantic adventure. The other gave him\nthe restless spirit that made him seek adventure. By day he was Quigg,\nthe restaurateur. By night he was the Margrave\u2014the Caliph\u2014the Prince of\nBohemia\u2014going about the city in search of the odd, the mysterious, the\ninexplicable, the recondite.", "words": 307}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One night at 9, at which hour the restaurant closed, Quigg set forth\nupon his quest. There was a mingling of the foreign, the military and\nthe artistic in his appearance as he buttoned his coat high up under\nhis short-trimmed brown and gray beard and turned westward toward the\nmore central life conduits of the city. In his pocket he had stored an\nassortment of cards, written upon, without which he never stirred out\nof doors. Each of those cards was good at his own restaurant for its\nface value. Some called simply for a bowl of soup or sandwiches and\ncoffee; others entitled their bearer to one, two, three or more days of\nfull meals; a few were for single regular meals; a very few were, in\neffect, meal tickets good for a week. Of riches and power Margrave Quigg had none; but he had a Caliph\u2019s\nheart\u2014it may be forgiven him if his head fell short of the measure of\nHarun Al Rashid\u2019s. Perhaps some of the gold pieces in Bagdad had put\nless warmth and hope into the complainants among the bazaars than had\nQuigg\u2019s beef stew among the fishermen and one-eyed calenders of\nManhattan. Continuing his progress in search of romance to divert him, or of\ndistress that he might aid, Quigg became aware of a fast-gathering\ncrowd that whooped and fought and eddied at a corner of Broadway and\nthe crosstown street that he was traversing. Hurrying to the spot he\nbeheld a young man of an exceedingly melancholy and preoccupied\ndemeanor engaged in the pastime of casting silver money from his\npockets in the middle of the street. With each motion of the generous\none\u2019s hand the crowd huddled upon the falling largesse with yells of\njoy. Traffic was suspended. A policeman in the centre of the mob\nstooped often to the ground as he urged the blockaders to move on.", "words": 318}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The Margrave saw at a glance that here was food for his hunger after\nknowledge concerning abnormal working of the human heart. He made his\nway swiftly to the young man\u2019s side and took his arm. \u201cCome with me at\nonce,\u201d he said, in the low but commanding voice that his waiters had\nlearned to fear. \u201cPinched,\u201d remarked the young man, looking up at him with\nexpressionless eyes. \u201cPinched by a painless dentist. Take me away,\nflatty, and give me gas. Some lay eggs and some lay none. When is a\nhen?\u201d Still deeply seized by some inward grief, but tractable, he allowed\nQuigg to lead him away and down the street to a little park. There, seated on a bench, he upon whom a corner of the great Caliph\u2019s\nmantle has descended, spake with kindness and discretion, seeking to\nknow what evil had come upon the other, disturbing his soul and driving\nhim to such ill-considered and ruinous waste of his substance and\nstores. \u201cI was doing the Monte Cristo act as adapted by Pompton, N. J., wasn\u2019t\nI?\u201d asked the young man. \u201cYou were throwing small coins into the street for the people to\nscramble after,\u201d said the Margrave. \u201cThat\u2019s it. You buy all the beer you can hold, and then you throw\nchicken feed to\u2014 Oh, curse that word chicken, and hens, feathers,\nroosters, eggs, and everything connected with it!\u201d", "words": 233}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYoung sir,\u201d said the Margrave kindly, but with dignity, \u201cthough I do\nnot ask your confidence, I invite it. I know the world and I know\nhumanity. Man is my study, though I do not eye him as the scientist\neyes a beetle or as the philanthropist gazes at the objects of his\nbounty\u2014through a veil of theory and ignorance. It is my pleasure and\ndistraction to interest myself in the peculiar and complicated\nmisfortunes that life in a great city visits upon my fellow-men. You\nmay be familiar with the history of that glorious and immortal ruler,\nthe Caliph Harun Al Rashid, whose wise and beneficent excursions among\nhis people in the city of Bagdad secured him the privilege of relieving\nso much of their distress. In my humble way I walk in his footsteps. I\nseek for romance and adventure in city streets\u2014not in ruined castles or\nin crumbling palaces. To me the greatest marvels of magic are those\nthat take place in men\u2019s hearts when acted upon by the furious and\ndiverse forces of a crowded population. In your strange behavior this\nevening I fancy a story lurks. I read in your act something deeper than\nthe wanton wastefulness of a spendthrift. I observe in your countenance\nthe certain traces of consuming grief or despair. I repeat\u2014I invite\nyour confidence. I am not without some power to alleviate and advise.\nWill you not trust me?\u201d", "words": 238}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGee, how you talk!\u201d exclaimed the young man, a gleam of admiration\nsupplanting for a moment the dull sadness of his eyes. \u201cYou\u2019ve got the\nAstor Library skinned to a synopsis of preceding chapters. I mind that\nold Turk you speak of. I read \u2018The Arabian Nights\u2019 when I was a kid. He\nwas a kind of Bill Devery and Charlie Schwab rolled into one. But, say,\nyou might wave enchanted dishrags and make copper bottles smoke up coon\ngiants all night without ever touching me. My case won\u2019t yield to that\nkind of treatment.\u201d \u201cIf I could hear your story,\u201d said the Margrave, with his lofty,\nserious smile. \u201cI\u2019ll spiel it in about nine words,\u201d said the young man, with a deep\nsigh, \u201cbut I don\u2019t think you can help me any. Unless you\u2019re a peach at\nguessing it\u2019s back to the Bosphorus for you on your magic linoleum.\u201d THE STORY OF THE YOUNG MAN AND THE HARNESS MAKER\u2019S RIDDLE \u201cI work in Hildebrant\u2019s saddle and harness shop down in Grant Street.\nI\u2019ve worked there five years. I get $18 a week. That\u2019s enough to marry\non, ain\u2019t it? Well, I\u2019m not going to get married. Old Hildebrant is one\nof these funny Dutchmen\u2014you know the kind\u2014always getting off bum jokes.\nHe\u2019s got about a million riddles and things that he faked from Rogers\nBrothers\u2019 great-grandfather. Bill Watson works there, too. Me and Bill\nhave to stand for them chestnuts day after day. Why do we do it? Well,\njobs ain\u2019t to be picked off every Anheuser bush\u2014 And then there\u2019s\nLaura. \u201cWhat? The old man\u2019s daughter. Comes in the shop every day. About\nnineteen, and the picture of the blonde that sits on the palisades of\nthe Rhine and charms the clam-diggers into the surf. Hair the color of\nstraw matting, and eyes as black and shiny as the best harness\nblacking\u2014think of that!", "words": 316}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMe? well, it\u2019s either me or Bill Watson. She treats us both equal.\nBill is all to the psychopathic about her; and me?\u2014well, you saw me\nplating the roadbed of the Great Maroon Way with silver to-night. That\nwas on account of Laura. I was spiflicated, Your Highness, and I wot\nnot of what I wouldst. \u201cHow? Why, old Hildebrandt says to me and Bill this afternoon: \u2018Boys,\none riddle have I for you gehabt haben. A young man who cannot riddles\nantworten, he is not so good by business for ein family to provide\u2014is\nnot that\u2014hein?\u2019 And he hands us a riddle\u2014a conundrum, some calls it\u2014and\nhe chuckles interiorly and gives both of us till to-morrow morning to\nwork out the answer to it. And he says whichever of us guesses the\nrepartee end of it goes to his house o\u2019 Wednesday night to his\ndaughter\u2019s birthday party. And it means Laura for whichever of us goes,\nfor she\u2019s naturally aching for a husband, and it\u2019s either me or Bill\nWatson, for old Hildebrant likes us both, and wants her to marry\nsomebody that\u2019ll carry on the business after he\u2019s stitched his last\npair of traces. \u201cThe riddle? Why, it was this: \u2018What kind of a hen lays the longest?\nThink of that! What kind of a hen lays the longest? Ain\u2019t it like a\nDutchman to risk a man\u2019s happiness on a fool proposition like that?\nNow, what\u2019s the use? What I don\u2019t know about hens would fill several\nincubators. You say you\u2019re giving imitations of the old Arab guy that\ngave away\u2014libraries in Bagdad. Well, now, can you whistle up a fairy\nthat\u2019ll solve this hen query, or not?\u201d When the young man ceased the Margrave arose and paced to and fro by\nthe park bench for several minutes. Finally he sat again, and said, in\ngrave and impressive tones:", "words": 313}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI must confess, sir, that during the eight years that I have spent in\nsearch of adventure and in relieving distress I have never encountered\na more interesting or a more perplexing case. I fear that I have\noverlooked hens in my researches and observations. As to their habits,\ntheir times and manner of laying, their many varieties and\ncross-breedings, their span of life, their\u2014\u201d \u201cOh, don\u2019t make an Ibsen drama of it!\u201d interrupted the young man,\nflippantly. \u201cRiddles\u2014especially old Hildebrant\u2019s riddles\u2014don\u2019t have to\nbe worked out seriously. They are light themes such as Sim Ford and\nHarry Thurston Peck like to handle. But, somehow, I can\u2019t strike just\nthe answer. Bill Watson may, and he may not. To-morrow will tell. Well,\nYour Majesty, I\u2019m glad anyhow that you butted in and whiled the time\naway. I guess Mr. Al Rashid himself would have bounced back if one of\nhis constituents had conducted him up against this riddle. I\u2019ll say\ngood night. Peace fo\u2019 yours, and what-you-may-call-its of Allah.\u201d The Margrave, still with a gloomy air, held out his hand. \u201cI cannot express my regret,\u201d he said, sadly. \u201cNever before have I\nfound myself unable to assist in some way. \u2018What kind of a hen lays the\nlongest? It is a baffling problem. There is a hen, I believe, called\nthe Plymouth Rock that\u2014\u201d \u201cCut it out,\u201d said the young man. \u201cThe Caliph trade is a mighty serious\none. I don\u2019t suppose you\u2019d even see anything funny in a preacher\u2019s\ndefense of John D. Rockefeller. Well, good night, Your Nibs.\u201d From habit the Margrave began to fumble in his pockets. He drew forth a\ncard and handed it to the young man. \u201cDo me the favor to accept this, anyhow,\u201d he said. \u201cThe time may come\nwhen it might be of use to you.\u201d \u201cThanks!\u201d said the young man, pocketing it carelessly. \u201cMy name is\nSimmons.\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 37, "title": "A BIRD OF BAGDAD", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Shame to him who would hint that the reader\u2019s interest shall altogether\npursue the Margrave August Michael von Paulsen Quigg. I am indeed\nastray if my hand fail in keeping the way where my peruser\u2019s heart\nwould follow. Then let us, on the morrow, peep quickly in at the door\nof Hildebrant, harness maker. Hildebrant\u2019s 200 pounds reposed on a bench, silver-buckling a raw\nleather martingale. Bill Watson came in first. \u201cVell,\u201d said Hildebrant, shaking all over with the vile conceit of the\njoke-maker, \u201chaf you guessed him? \u2018Vat kind of a hen lays der\nlongest?\u2019\u201d \u201cEr\u2014why, I think so,\u201d said Bill, rubbing a servile chin. \u201cI think so,\nMr. Hildebrant\u2014the one that lives the longest\u2014 Is that right?\u201d \u201cNein!\u201d said Hildebrant, shaking his head violently. \u201cYou haf not\nguessed der answer.\u201d Bill passed on and donned a bed-tick apron and bachelorhood. In came the young man of the Arabian Night\u2019s fiasco\u2014pale, melancholy,\nhopeless. \u201cVell,\u201d said Hildebrant, \u201chaf you guessed him? \u2018Vat kind of a hen lays\nder longest?\u2019\u201d Simmons regarded him with dull savagery in his eye. Should he curse\nthis mountain of pernicious humor\u2014curse him and die? Why should\u2014 But\nthere was Laura. Dogged, speechless, he thrust his hands into his coat pockets and\nstood. His hand encountered the strange touch of the Margrave\u2019s card.\nHe drew it out and looked at it, as men about to be hanged look at a\ncrawling fly. There was written on it in Quigg\u2019s bold, round hand:\n\u201cGood for one roast chicken to bearer.\u201d Simmons looked up with a flashing eye. \u201cA dead one!\u201d said he. \u201cGoot!\u201d roared Hildebrant, rocking the table with giant glee. \u201cDot is\nright! You gome at mine house at 8 o\u2019clock to der party.\u201d XVI", "words": 289}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There are no more Christmas stories to write. Fiction is exhausted; and\nnewspaper items, the next best, are manufactured by clever young\njournalists who have married early and have an engagingly pessimistic\nview of life. Therefore, for seasonable diversion, we are reduced to\nvery questionable sources\u2014facts and philosophy. We will begin\nwith\u2014whichever you choose to call it. Children are pestilential little animals with which we have to cope\nunder a bewildering variety of conditions. Especially when childish\nsorrows overwhelm them are we put to our wits\u2019 end. We exhaust our\npaltry store of consolation; and then beat them, sobbing, to sleep.\nThen we grovel in the dust of a million years, and ask God why. Thus we\ncall out of the rat-trap. As for the children, no one understands them\nexcept old maids, hunchbacks, and shepherd dogs. Now comes the facts in the case of the Rag-Doll, the Tatterdemalion,\nand the Twenty-fifth of December. On the tenth of that month the Child of the Millionaire lost her\nrag-doll. There were many servants in the Millionaire\u2019s palace on the\nHudson, and these ransacked the house and grounds, but without finding\nthe lost treasure. The child was a girl of five, and one of those\nperverse little beasts that often wound the sensibilities of wealthy\nparents by fixing their affections upon some vulgar, inexpensive toy\ninstead of upon diamond-studded automobiles and pony phaetons. The Child grieved sorely and truly, a thing inexplicable to the\nMillionaire, to whom the rag-doll market was about as interesting as\nBay State Gas; and to the Lady, the Child\u2019s mother, who was all\nform\u2014that is, nearly all, as you shall see.", "words": 274}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The Child cried inconsolably, and grew hollow-eyed, knock-kneed,\nspindling, and corykilverty in many other respects. The Millionaire\nsmiled and tapped his coffers confidently. The pick of the output of\nthe French and German toymakers was rushed by special delivery to the\nmansion; but Rachel refused to be comforted. She was weeping for her\nrag child, and was for a high protective tariff against all foreign\nfoolishness. Then doctors with the finest bedside manners and\nstop-watches were called in. One by one they chattered futilely about\npeptomanganate of iron and sea voyages and hypophosphites until their\nstop-watches showed that Bill Rendered was under the wire for show or\nplace. Then, as men, they advised that the rag-doll be found as soon as\npossible and restored to its mourning parent. The Child sniffed at\ntherapeutics, chewed a thumb, and wailed for her Betsy. And all this\ntime cablegrams were coming from Santa Claus saying that he would soon\nbe here and enjoining us to show a true Christian spirit and let up on\nthe pool-rooms and tontine policies and platoon systems long enough to\ngive him a welcome. Everywhere the spirit of Christmas was diffusing\nitself. The banks were refusing loans, the pawn-brokers had doubled\ntheir gang of helpers, people bumped your shins on the streets with red\nsleds, Thomas and Jeremiah bubbled before you on the bars while you\nwaited on one foot, holly-wreaths of hospitality were hung in windows\nof the stores, they who had \u2019em were getting their furs. You hardly\nknew which was the best bet in balls\u2014three, high, moth, or snow. It was\nno time at which to lose the rag-doll or your heart.", "words": 277}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "If Doctor Watson\u2019s investigating friend had been called in to solve\nthis mysterious disappearance he might have observed on the\nMillionaire\u2019s wall a copy of \u201cThe Vampire.\u201d That would have quickly\nsuggested, by induction, \u201cA rag and a bone and a hank of hair.\u201d \u201cFlip,\u201d\na Scotch terrier, next to the rag-doll in the Child\u2019s heart, frisked\nthrough the halls. The hank of hair! Aha! X, the unfound quantity,\nrepresented the rag-doll. But, the bone? Well, when dogs find bones\nthey\u2014Done! It were an easy and a fruitful task to examine Flip\u2019s\nforefeet. Look, Watson! Earth\u2014dried earth between the toes. Of course,\nthe dog\u2014but Sherlock was not there. Therefore it devolves. But\ntopography and architecture must intervene. The Millionaire\u2019s palace occupied a lordly space. In front of it was a\nlawn close-mowed as a South Ireland man\u2019s face two days after a shave.\nAt one side of it, and fronting on another street was a pleasaunce\ntrimmed to a leaf, and the garage and stables. The Scotch pup had\nravished the rag-doll from the nursery, dragged it to a corner of the\nlawn, dug a hole, and buried it after the manner of careless\nundertakers. There you have the mystery solved, and no checks to write\nfor the hypodermical wizard or fi\u2019-pun notes to toss to the sergeant.\nThen let\u2019s get down to the heart of the thing, tiresome readers\u2014the\nChristmas heart of the thing. Fuzzy was drunk\u2014not riotously or helplessly or loquaciously, as you or\nI might get, but decently, appropriately, and inoffensively, as becomes\na gentleman down on his luck. Fuzzy was a soldier of misfortune. The road, the haystack, the park\nbench, the kitchen door, the bitter round of eleemosynary\nbeds-with-shower-bath-attachment, the petty pickings and ignobly\ngarnered largesse of great cities\u2014these formed the chapters of his\nhistory.", "words": 300}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Fuzzy walked toward the river, down the street that bounded one side of\nthe Millionaire\u2019s house and grounds. He saw a leg of Betsy, the lost\nrag-doll, protruding, like the clue to a Lilliputian murder mystery,\nfrom its untimely grave in a corner of the fence. He dragged forth the\nmaltreated infant, tucked it under his arm, and went on his way\ncrooning a road song of his brethren that no doll that has been brought\nup to the sheltered life should hear. Well for Betsy that she had no\nears. And well that she had no eyes save unseeing circles of black; for\nthe faces of Fuzzy and the Scotch terrier were those of brothers, and\nthe heart of no rag-doll could withstand twice to become the prey of\nsuch fearsome monsters. Though you may not know it, Grogan\u2019s saloon stands near the river and\nnear the foot of the street down which Fuzzy traveled. In Grogan\u2019s,\nChristmas cheer was already rampant. Fuzzy entered with his doll. He fancied that as a mummer at the feast\nof Saturn he might earn a few drops from the wassail cup. He set Betsy on the bar and addressed her loudly and humorously,\nseasoning his speech with exaggerated compliments and endearments, as\none entertaining his lady friend. The loafers and bibbers around caught\nthe farce of it, and roared. The bartender gave Fuzzy a drink. Oh, many\nof us carry rag-dolls. \u201cOne for the lady?\u201d suggested Fuzzy impudently, and tucked another\ncontribution to Art beneath his waistcoat. He began to see possibilities in Betsy. His first-night had been a\nsuccess. Visions of a vaudeville circuit about town dawned upon him.", "words": 278}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In a group near the stove sat \u201cPigeon\u201d McCarthy, Black Riley, and\n\u201cOne-ear\u201d Mike, well and unfavorably known in the tough shoestring\ndistrict that blackened the left bank of the river. They passed a\nnewspaper back and forth among themselves. The item that each solid and\nblunt forefinger pointed out was an advertisement headed \u201cOne Hundred\nDollars Reward.\u201d To earn it one must return the rag-doll lost, strayed,\nor stolen from the Millionaire\u2019s mansion. It seemed that grief still\nravaged, unchecked, in the bosom of the too faithful Child. Flip, the\nterrier, capered and shook his absurd whisker before her, powerless to\ndistract. She wailed for her Betsy in the faces of walking, talking,\nmama-ing, and eye-closing French Mabelles and Violettes. The\nadvertisement was a last resort. Black Riley came from behind the stove and approached Fuzzy in his\none-sided parabolic way. The Christmas mummer, flushed with success, had tucked Betsy under his\narm, and was about to depart to the filling of impromptu dates\nelsewhere. \u201cSay, \u2018Bo,\u201d said Black Riley to him, \u201cwhere did you cop out dat doll?\u201d \u201cThis doll?\u201d asked Fuzzy, touching Betsy with his forefinger to be sure\nthat she was the one referred to. Why, this doll was presented to me by\nthe Emperor of Beloochistan. I have seven hundred others in my country\nhome in Newport. This doll\u2014\u201d \u201cCheese the funny business,\u201d said Riley. \u201cYou swiped it or picked it up\nat de house on de hill where\u2014but never mind dat. You want to take fifty\ncents for de rags, and take it quick. Me brother\u2019s kid at home might be\nwantin\u2019 to play wid it. Hey\u2014what?\u201d He produced the coin.", "words": 277}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Fuzzy laughed a gurgling, insolent, alcoholic laugh in his face. Go to\nthe office of Sarah Bernhardt\u2019s manager and propose to him that she be\nreleased from a night\u2019s performance to entertain the Tackytown Lyceum\nand Literary Coterie. You will hear the duplicate of Fuzzy\u2019s laugh. Black Riley gauged Fuzzy quickly with his blueberry eye as a wrestler\ndoes. His hand was itching to play the Roman and wrest the rag Sabine\nfrom the extemporaneous merry-andrew who was entertaining an angel\nunaware. But he refrained. Fuzzy was fat and solid and big. Three\ninches of well-nourished corporeity, defended from the winter winds by\ndingy linen, intervened between his vest and trousers. Countless small,\ncircular wrinkles running around his coat-sleeves and knees guaranteed\nthe quality of his bone and muscle. His small, blue eyes, bathed in the\nmoisture of altruism and wooziness, looked upon you kindly, yet without\nabashment. He was whiskerly, whiskyly, fleshily formidable. So, Black\nRiley temporized. \u201cWot\u2019ll you take for it, den?\u201d he asked. \u201cMoney,\u201d said Fuzzy, with husky firmness, \u201ccannot buy her.\u201d He was intoxicated with the artist\u2019s first sweet cup of attainment. To\nset a faded-blue, earth-stained rag-doll on a bar, to hold mimic\nconverse with it, and to find his heart leaping with the sense of\nplaudits earned and his throat scorching with free libations poured in\nhis honor\u2014could base coin buy him from such achievements? You will\nperceive that Fuzzy had the temperament. Fuzzy walked out with the gait of a trained sea-lion in search of other\ncaf\u00e9s to conquer. Though the dusk of twilight was hardly yet apparent, lights were\nbeginning to spangle the city like pop-corn bursting in a deep skillet.\nChristmas Eve, impatiently expected, was peeping over the brink of the\nhour. Millions had prepared for its celebration. Towns would be painted\nred. You, yourself, have heard the horns and dodged the capers of the\nSaturnalians.", "words": 315}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cPigeon\u201d McCarthy, Black Riley, and \u201cOne-ear\u201d Mike held a hasty\nconverse outside Grogan\u2019s. They were narrow-chested, pallid striplings,\nnot fighters in the open, but more dangerous in their ways of warfare\nthan the most terrible of Turks. Fuzzy, in a pitched battle, could have\neaten the three of them. In a go-as-you-please encounter he was already\ndoomed. They overtook him just as he and Betsy were entering Costigan\u2019s Casino.\nThey deflected him, and shoved the newspaper under his nose. Fuzzy\ncould read\u2014and more. \u201cBoys,\u201d said he, \u201cyou are certainly damn true friends. Give me a week\nto think it over.\u201d The soul of a real artist is quenched with difficulty. The boys carefully pointed out to him that advertisements were\nsoulless, and that the deficiencies of the day might not be supplied by\nthe morrow. \u201cA cool hundred,\u201d said Fuzzy thoughtfully and mushily. \u201cBoys,\u201d said he, \u201cyou are true friends. I\u2019ll go up and claim the\nreward. The show business is not what it used to be.\u201d Night was falling more surely. The three tagged at his sides to the\nfoot of the rise on which stood the Millionaire\u2019s house. There Fuzzy\nturned upon them acrimoniously. \u201cYou are a pack of putty-faced beagle-hounds,\u201d he roared. \u201cGo away.\u201d They went away\u2014a little way. In \u201cPigeon\u201d McCarthy\u2019s pocket was a section of one-inch gas-pipe eight\ninches long. In one end of it and in the middle of it was a lead plug.\nOne-half of it was packed tight with solder. Black Riley carried a\nslung-shot, being a conventional thug. \u201cOne-ear\u201d Mike relied upon a\npair of brass knucks\u2014an heirloom in the family. \u201cWhy fetch and carry,\u201d said Black Riley, \u201cwhen some one will do it for\nye? Let him bring it out to us. Hey\u2014what?\u201d \u201cWe can chuck him in the river,\u201d said \u201cPigeon\u201d McCarthy, \u201cwith a stone\ntied to his feet.\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYouse guys make me tired,\u201d said \u201cOne-ear\u201d Mike sadly. \u201cAin\u2019t progress\never appealed to none of yez? Sprinkle a little gasoline on \u2019im, and\ndrop \u2019im on the Drive\u2014well?\u201d Fuzzy entered the Millionaire\u2019s gate and zigzagged toward the softly\nglowing entrance of the mansion. The three goblins came up to the gate\nand lingered\u2014one on each side of it, one beyond the roadway. They\nfingered their cold metal and leather, confident. Fuzzy rang the door-bell, smiling foolishly and dreamily. An atavistic\ninstinct prompted him to reach for the button of his right glove. But\nhe wore no gloves; so his left hand dropped, embarrassed. The particular menial whose duty it was to open doors to silks and\nlaces shied at first sight of Fuzzy. But a second glance took in his\npassport, his card of admission, his surety of welcome\u2014the lost\nrag-doll of the daughter of the house dangling under his arm. Fuzzy was admitted into a great hall, dim with the glow from unseen\nlights. The hireling went away and returned with a maid and the Child.\nThe doll was restored to the mourning one. She clasped her lost darling\nto her breast; and then, with the inordinate selfishness and candor of\nchildhood, stamped her foot and whined hatred and fear of the odious\nbeing who had rescued her from the depths of sorrow and despair. Fuzzy\nwriggled himself into an ingratiatory attitude and essayed the idiotic\nsmile and blattering small talk that is supposed to charm the budding\nintellect of the young. The Child bawled, and was dragged away, hugging\nher Betsy close.", "words": 265}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There came the Secretary, pale, poised, polished, gliding in pumps, and\nworshipping pomp and ceremony. He counted out into Fuzzy\u2019s hand ten\nten-dollar bills; then dropped his eye upon the door, transferred it to\nJames, its custodian, indicated the obnoxious earner of the reward with\nthe other, and allowed his pumps to waft him away to secretarial\nregions. James gathered Fuzzy with his own commanding optic and swept him as far\nas the front door. When the money touched fuzzy\u2019s dingy palm his first instinct was to\ntake to his heels; but a second thought restrained him from that\nblunder of etiquette. It was his; it had been given him. It\u2014and, oh,\nwhat an elysium it opened to the gaze of his mind\u2019s eye! He had tumbled\nto the foot of the ladder; he was hungry, homeless, friendless, ragged,\ncold, drifting; and he held in his hand the key to a paradise of the\nmud-honey that he craved. The fairy doll had waved a wand with her\nrag-stuffed hand; and now wherever he might go the enchanted palaces\nwith shining foot-rests and magic red fluids in gleaming glassware\nwould be open to him. He followed James to the door. He paused there as the flunky drew open the great mahogany portal for\nhim to pass into the vestibule. Beyond the wrought-iron gates in the dark highway Black Riley and his\ntwo pals casually strolled, fingering under their coats the inevitably\nfatal weapons that were to make the reward of the rag-doll theirs.", "words": 252}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Fuzzy stopped at the Millionaire\u2019s door and bethought himself. Like\nlittle sprigs of mistletoe on a dead tree, certain living green\nthoughts and memories began to decorate his confused mind. He was quite\ndrunk, mind you, and the present was beginning to fade. Those wreaths\nand festoons of holly with their scarlet berries making the great hall\ngay\u2014where had he seen such things before? Somewhere he had known\npolished floors and odors of fresh flowers in winter, and\u2014and some one\nwas singing a song in the house that he thought he had heard before.\nSome one singing and playing a harp. Of course, it was Christmas\u2014Fuzzy\nthought he must have been pretty drunk to have overlooked that. And then he went out of the present, and there came back to him out of\nsome impossible, vanished, and irrevocable past a little, pure-white,\ntransient, forgotten ghost\u2014the spirit of _noblesse oblige_. Upon a\ngentleman certain things devolve. James opened the outer door. A stream of light went down the graveled\nwalk to the iron gate. Black Riley, McCarthy, and \u201cOne-ear\u201d Mike saw,\nand carelessly drew their sinister cordon closer about the gate. With a more imperious gesture than James\u2019s master had ever used or\ncould ever use, Fuzzy compelled the menial to close the door. Upon a\ngentleman certain things devolve. Especially at the Christmas season. \u201cIt is cust\u2014customary,\u201d he said to James, the flustered, \u201cwhen a\ngentleman calls on Christmas Eve to pass the compliments of the season\nwith the lady of the house. You und\u2019stand? I shall not move shtep till\nI pass compl\u2019ments season with lady the house. Und\u2019stand?\u201d There was an argument. James lost. Fuzzy raised his voice and sent it\nthrough the house unpleasantly. I did not say he was a gentleman. He\nwas simply a tramp being visited by a ghost.", "words": 305}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A sterling silver bell rang. James went back to answer it, leaving\nFuzzy in the hall. James explained somewhere to some one. Then he came and conducted Fuzzy into the library. The lady entered a moment later. She was more beautiful and holy than\nany picture that Fuzzy had seen. She smiled, and said something about a\ndoll. Fuzzy didn\u2019t understand that; he remembered nothing about a doll. A footman brought in two small glasses of sparkling wine on a stamped\nsterling-silver waiter. The Lady took one. The other was handed to\nFuzzy. As his fingers closed on the slender glass stem his disabilities\ndropped from him for one brief moment. He straightened himself; and\nTime, so disobliging to most of us, turned backward to accommodate\nFuzzy. Forgotten Christmas ghosts whiter than the false beards of the most\nopulent Kris Kringle were rising in the fumes of Grogan\u2019s whisky. What\nhad the Millionaire\u2019s mansion to do with a long, wainscoted Virginia\nhall, where the riders were grouped around a silver punch-bowl,\ndrinking the ancient toast of the House? And why should the patter of\nthe cab horses\u2019 hoofs on the frozen street be in any wise related to\nthe sound of the saddled hunters stamping under the shelter of the west\nveranda? And what had Fuzzy to do with any of it? The Lady, looking at him over her glass, let her condescending smile\nfade away like a false dawn. Her eyes turned serious. She saw something\nbeneath the rags and Scotch terrier whiskers that she did not\nunderstand. But it did not matter. Fuzzy lifted his glass and smiled vacantly. \u201cP-pardon, lady,\u201d he said, \u201cbut couldn\u2019t leave without exchangin\u2019\ncomp\u2019ments sheason with lady th\u2019 house. \u2019Gainst princ\u2019ples gen\u2019leman do\nsho.\u201d And then he began the ancient salutation that was a tradition in the\nHouse when men wore lace ruffles and powder. \u201cThe blessings of another year\u2014\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 38, "title": "COMPLIMENTS OF THE SEASON", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Fuzzy\u2019s memory failed him. The Lady prompted: \u201c\u2014Be upon this hearth.\u201d \u201c\u2014The guest\u2014\u201d stammered Fuzzy. \u201c\u2014And upon her who\u2014\u201d continued the Lady, with a leading smile. \u201cOh, cut it out,\u201d said Fuzzy, ill-manneredly. \u201cI can\u2019t remember. Drink\nhearty.\u201d Fuzzy had shot his arrow. They drank. The Lady smiled again the smile\nof her caste. James enveloped and re-conducted him toward the front\ndoor. The harp music still softly drifted through the house. Outside, Black Riley breathed on his cold hands and hugged the gate. \u201cI wonder,\u201d said the Lady to herself, musing, \u201cwho\u2014but there were so\nmany who came. I wonder whether memory is a curse or a blessing to them\nafter they have fallen so low.\u201d Fuzzy and his escort were nearly at the door. The Lady called: \u201cJames!\u201d James stalked back obsequiously, leaving Fuzzy waiting unsteadily, with\nhis brief spark of the divine fire gone. Outside, Black Riley stamped his cold feet and got a firmer grip on his\nsection of gas-pipe. \u201cYou will conduct this gentleman,\u201d said the lady, \u201cDownstairs. Then\ntell Louis to get out the Mercedes and take him to whatever place he\nwishes to go.\u201d XVII", "words": 192}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The great city of Bagdad-on-the-Subway is caliph-ridden. Its palaces,\nbazaars, khans, and byways are thronged with Al Rashids in divers\ndisguises, seeking diversion and victims for their unbridled\ngenerosity. You can scarcely find a poor beggar whom they are willing\nto let enjoy his spoils unsuccored, nor a wrecked unfortunate upon whom\nthey will not reshower the means of fresh misfortune. You will hardly\nfind anywhere a hungry one who has not had the opportunity to tighten\nhis belt in gift libraries, nor a poor pundit who has not blushed at\nthe holiday basket of celery-crowned turkey forced resoundingly through\nhis door by the eleemosynary press. So then, fearfully through the Harun-haunted streets creep the one-eyed\ncalenders, the Little Hunchback and the Barber\u2019s Sixth Brother, hoping\nto escape the ministrations of the roving horde of caliphoid sultans. Entertainment for many Arabian nights might be had from the histories\nof those who have escaped the largesse of the army of Commanders of the\nFaithful. Until dawn you might sit on the enchanted rug and listen to\nsuch stories as are told of the powerful genie Roc-Ef-El-Er who sent\nthe Forty Thieves to soak up the oil plant of Ali Baba; of the good\nCaliph Kar-Neg-Ghe, who gave away palaces; of the Seven Voyages of\nSailbad, the Sinner, who frequented wooden excursion steamers among the\nislands; of the Fisherman and the Bottle; of the Barmecides\u2019 Boarding\nhouse; of Aladdin\u2019s rise to wealth by means of his Wonderful Gas-meter. But now, there being ten sultans to one Sheherazade, she is held too\nvaluable to be in fear of the bowstring. In consequence the art of\nnarrative languishes. And, as the lesser caliphs are hunting the happy\npoor and the resigned unfortunate from cover to cover in order to heap\nupon them strange mercies and mysterious benefits, too often comes the\nreport from Arabian headquarters that the captive refused \u201cto talk.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "This reticence, then, in the actors who perform the sad comedies of\ntheir philanthropy-scourged world, must, in a degree, account for the\nshortcomings of this painfully gleaned tale, which shall be called THE STORY OF THE CALIPH WHO ALLEVIATED HIS CONSCIENCE Old Jacob Spraggins mixed for himself some Scotch and lithia water at\nhis $1,200 oak sideboard. Inspiration must have resulted from its\nimbibition, for immediately afterward he struck the quartered oak\nsoundly with his fist and shouted to the empty dining room: \u201cBy the coke ovens of hell, it must be that ten thousand dollars! If I\ncan get that squared, it\u2019ll do the trick.\u201d Thus, by the commonest artifice of the trade, having gained your\ninterest, the action of the story will now be suspended, leaving you\ngrumpily to consider a sort of dull biography beginning fifteen years\nbefore. When old Jacob was young Jacob he was a breaker boy in a Pennsylvania\ncoal mine. I don\u2019t know what a breaker boy is; but his occupation seems\nto be standing by a coal dump with a wan look and a dinner-pail to have\nhis picture taken for magazine articles. Anyhow, Jacob was one. But,\ninstead of dying of overwork at nine, and leaving his helpless parents\nand brothers at the mercy of the union strikers\u2019 reserve fund, he\nhitched up his galluses, put a dollar or two in a side proposition now\nand then, and at forty-five was worth $20,000,000. There now! it\u2019s over. Hardly had time to yawn, did you? I\u2019ve seen\nbiographies that\u2014but let us dissemble. I want you to consider Jacob Spraggins, Esq., after he had arrived at\nthe seventh stage of his career. The stages meant are, first, humble\norigin; second, deserved promotion; third, stockholder; fourth,\ncapitalist; fifth, trust magnate; sixth, rich malefactor; seventh,\ncaliph; eighth, _x_. The eighth stage shall be left to the higher\nmathematics.", "words": 313}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At fifty-five Jacob retired from active business. The income of a czar\nwas still rolling in on him from coal, iron, real estate, oil,\nrailroads, manufactories, and corporations, but none of it touched\nJacob\u2019s hands in a raw state. It was a sterilized increment, carefully\ncleaned and dusted and fumigated until it arrived at its ultimate stage\nof untainted, spotless checks in the white fingers of his private\nsecretary. Jacob built a three-million-dollar palace on a corner lot\nfronting on Nabob Avenue, city of New Bagdad, and began to feel the\nmantle of the late H. A. Rashid descending upon him. Eventually Jacob\nslipped the mantle under his collar, tied it in a neat four-in-hand,\nand became a licensed harrier of our Mesopotamian proletariat. When a man\u2019s income becomes so large that the butcher actually sends\nhim the kind of steak he orders, he begins to think about his soul\u2019s\nsalvation. Now, the various stages or classes of rich men must not be\nforgotten. The capitalist can tell you to a dollar the amount of his\nwealth. The trust magnate \u201cestimates\u201d it. The rich malefactor hands you\na cigar and denies that he has bought the P. D. & Q. The caliph merely\nsmiles and talks about Hammerstein and the musical lasses. There is a\nrecord of tremendous altercation at breakfast in a \u201cWhere-to-Dine-Well\u201d\ntavern between a magnate and his wife, the rift within the loot being\nthat the wife calculated their fortune at a figure $3,000,000 higher\nthan did her future _divorc\u00e9_. Oh, well, I, myself, heard a similar\nquarrel between a man and his wife because he found fifty cents less in\nhis pockets than he thought he had. After all, we are all human\u2014Count\nTolstoi, R. Fitzsimmons, Peter Pan, and the rest of us. Don\u2019t lose heart because the story seems to be degenerating into a sort\nof moral essay for intellectual readers.", "words": 316}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There will be dialogue and stage business pretty soon. When Jacob first began to compare the eyes of needles with the camels\nin the Zoo he decided upon organized charity. He had his secretary send\na check for one million to the Universal Benevolent Association of the\nGlobe. You may have looked down through a grating in front of a decayed\nwarehouse for a nickel that you had dropped through. But that is\nneither here nor there. The Association acknowledged receipt of his\nfavor of the 24th ult. with enclosure as stated. Separated by a double\nline, but still mighty close to the matter under the caption of\n\u201cOddities of the Day\u2019s News\u201d in an evening paper, Jacob Spraggins read\nthat one \u201cJasper Spargyous\u201d had \u201cdonated $100,000 to the U. B. A. of\nG.\u201d A camel may have a stomach for each day in the week; but I dare not\nventure to accord him whiskers, for fear of the Great Displeasure at\nWashington; but if he have whiskers, surely not one of them will seem\nto have been inserted in the eye of a needle by that effort of that\nrich man to enter the K. of H. The right is reserved to reject any and\nall bids; signed, S. Peter, secretary and gatekeeper. Next, Jacob selected the best endowed college he could scare up and\npresented it with a $200,000 laboratory. The college did not maintain a\nscientific course, but it accepted the money and built an elaborate\nlavatory instead, which was no diversion of funds so far as Jacob ever\ndiscovered. The faculty met and invited Jacob to come over and take his A B C\ndegree. Before sending the invitation they smiled, cut out the C, added\nthe proper punctuation marks, and all was well.", "words": 298}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "While walking on the campus before being capped and gowned, Jacob saw\ntwo professors strolling nearby. Their voices, long adapted to indoor\nacoustics, undesignedly reached his ear. \u201cThere goes the latest _chevalier d\u2019industrie_,\u201d said one of them, \u201cto\nbuy a sleeping powder from us. He gets his degree to-morrow.\u201d \u201c_In foro conscienti\u00e6_,\u201d said the other. \u201cLet\u2019s \u2019eave \u2019arf a brick at\n\u2019im.\u201d Jacob ignored the Latin, but the brick pleasantry was not too hard for\nhim. There was no mandragora in the honorary draught of learning that\nhe had bought. That was before the passage of the Pure Food and Drugs\nAct. Jacob wearied of philanthropy on a large scale. \u201cIf I could see folks made happier,\u201d he said to himself\u2014\u201cIf I could see\n\u2019em myself and hear \u2019em express their gratitude for what I done for \u2019em\nit would make me feel better. This donatin\u2019 funds to institutions and\nsocieties is about as satisfactory as dropping money into a broken slot\nmachine.\u201d So Jacob followed his nose, which led him through unswept streets to\nthe homes of the poorest. \u201cThe very thing!\u201d said Jacob. \u201cI will charter two river steamboats,\npack them full of these unfortunate children and\u2014say ten thousand dolls\nand drums and a thousand freezers of ice cream, and give them a\ndelightful outing up the Sound. The sea breezes on that trip ought to\nblow the taint off some of this money that keeps coming in faster than\nI can work it off my mind.\u201d", "words": 249}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Jacob must have leaked some of his benevolent intentions, for an\nimmense person with a bald face and a mouth that looked as if it ought\nto have a \u201cDrop Letters Here\u201d sign over it hooked a finger around him\nand set him in a space between a barber\u2019s pole and a stack of ash cans.\nWords came out of the post-office slit\u2014smooth, husky words with gloves\non \u2019em, but sounding as if they might turn to bare knuckles any moment. \u201cSay, Sport, do you know where you are at? Well, dis is Mike O\u2019Grady\u2019s\ndistrict you\u2019re buttin\u2019 into\u2014see? Mike\u2019s got de stomach-ache privilege\nfor every kid in dis neighborhood\u2014see? And if dere\u2019s any picnics or red\nballoons to be dealt out here, Mike\u2019s money pays for \u2019em\u2014see? Don\u2019t you\nbutt in, or something\u2019ll be handed to you. Youse d\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 settlers and\nreformers with your social ologies and your millionaire detectives have\ngot dis district in a hell of a fix, anyhow. With your college students\nand professors rough-housing de soda-water stands and dem rubber-neck\ncoaches fillin\u2019 de streets, de folks down here are \u2019fraid to go out of\nde houses. Now, you leave \u2019em to Mike. Dey belongs to him, and he knows\nhow to handle \u2019em. Keep on your own side of de town. Are you some wiser\nnow, uncle, or do you want to scrap wit\u2019 Mike O\u2019Grady for de Santa\nClaus belt in dis district?\u201d", "words": 239}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Clearly, that spot in the moral vineyard was preempted. So Caliph\nSpraggins menaced no more the people in the bazaars of the East Side.\nTo keep down his growing surplus he doubled his donations to organized\ncharity, presented the Y. M. C. A. of his native town with a $10,000\ncollection of butterflies, and sent a check to the famine sufferers in\nChina big enough to buy new emerald eyes and diamond-filled teeth for\nall their gods. But none of these charitable acts seemed to bring peace\nto the caliph\u2019s heart. He tried to get a personal note into his\nbenefactions by tipping bellboys and waiters $10 and $20 bills. He got\nwell snickered at and derided for that by the minions who accept with\nrespect gratuities commensurate to the service performed. He sought out\nan ambitious and talented but poor young woman, and bought for her the\nstar part in a new comedy. He might have gotten rid of $50,000 more of\nhis cumbersome money in this philanthropy if he had not neglected to\nwrite letters to her. But she lost the suit for lack of evidence, while\nhis capital still kept piling up, and his _optikos needleorum\ncamelibus_\u2014or rich man\u2019s disease\u2014was unrelieved. In Caliph Spraggins\u2019s $3,000,000 home lived his sister Henrietta, who\nused to cook for the coal miners in a twenty-five-cent eating house in\nCoketown, Pa., and who now would have offered John Mitchell only two\nfingers of her hand to shake. And his daughter Celia, nineteen, back\nfrom boarding-school and from being polished off by private instructors\nin the restaurant languages and those \u00e9tudes and things.", "words": 270}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Celia is the heroine. Lest the artist\u2019s delineation of her charms on\nthis very page humbug your fancy, take from me her authorized\ndescription. She was a nice-looking, awkward, loud, rather bashful,\nbrown-haired girl, with a sallow complexion, bright eyes, and a\nperpetual smile. She had a wholesome, Spraggins-inherited love for\nplain food, loose clothing, and the society of the lower classes. She\nhad too much health and youth to feel the burden of wealth. She had a\nwide mouth that kept the peppermint-pepsin tablets rattling like hail\nfrom the slot-machine wherever she went, and she could whistle\nhornpipes. Keep this picture in mind; and let the artist do his worst. Celia looked out of her window one day and gave her heart to the\ngrocer\u2019s young man. The receiver thereof was at that moment engaged in\nconceding immortality to his horse and calling down upon him the\nultimate fate of the wicked; so he did not notice the transfer. A horse\nshould stand still when you are lifting a crate of strictly new-laid\neggs out of the wagon. Young lady reader, you would have liked that grocer\u2019s young man\nyourself. But you wouldn\u2019t have given him your heart, because you are\nsaving it for a riding-master, or a shoe-manufacturer with a torpid\nliver, or something quiet but rich in gray tweeds at Palm Beach. Oh, I\nknow about it. So I am glad the grocer\u2019s young man was for Celia, and\nnot for you.", "words": 245}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The grocer\u2019s young man was slim and straight and as confident and easy\nin his movements as the man in the back of the magazines who wears the\nnew frictionless roller suspenders. He wore a gray bicycle cap on the\nback of his head, and his hair was straw-colored and curly, and his\nsunburned face looked like one that smiled a good deal when he was not\npreaching the doctrine of everlasting punishment to delivery-wagon\nhorses. He slung imported A1 fancy groceries about as though they were\nonly the stuff he delivered at boarding-houses; and when he picked up\nhis whip, your mind instantly recalled Mr. Tackett and his air with the\nbuttonless foils. Tradesmen delivered their goods at a side gate at the rear of the\nhouse. The grocer\u2019s wagon came about ten in the morning. For three days\nCelia watched the driver when he came, finding something new each time\nto admire in the lofty and almost contemptuous way he had of tossing\naround the choicest gifts of Pomona, Ceres, and the canning factories.\nThen she consulted Annette. To be explicit, Annette McCorkle, the second housemaid who deserves a\nparagraph herself. Annette Fletcherized large numbers of romantic\nnovels which she obtained at a free public library branch (donated by\none of the biggest caliphs in the business). She was Celia\u2019s\nside-kicker and chum, though Aunt Henrietta didn\u2019t know it, you may\nhazard a bean or two. \u201cOh, canary-bird seed!\u201d exclaimed Annette. \u201cAin\u2019t it a corkin\u2019\nsituation? You a heiress, and fallin\u2019 in love with him on sight! He\u2019s a\nsweet boy, too, and above his business. But he ain\u2019t susceptible like\nthe common run of grocer\u2019s assistants. He never pays no attention to\nme.\u201d \u201cHe will to me,\u201d said Celia. \u201cRiches\u2014\u201d began Annette, unsheathing the not unjustifiable feminine\nsting.", "words": 301}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh, you\u2019re not so beautiful,\u201d said Celia, with her wide, disarming\nsmile. \u201cNeither am I; but he sha\u2019n\u2019t know that there\u2019s any money mixed\nup with my looks, such as they are. That\u2019s fair. Now, I want you to\nlend me one of your caps and an apron, Annette.\u201d \u201cOh, marshmallows!\u201d cried Annette. \u201cI see. Ain\u2019t it lovely? It\u2019s just\nlike \u2018Lurline, the Left-Handed; or, A Buttonhole Maker\u2019s Wrongs.\u2019 I\u2019ll\nbet he\u2019ll turn out to be a count.\u201d There was a long hallway (or \u201cpassageway,\u201d as they call it in the land\nof the Colonels) with one side latticed, running along the rear of the\nhouse. The grocer\u2019s young man went through this to deliver his goods.\nOne morning he passed a girl in there with shining eyes, sallow\ncomplexion, and wide, smiling mouth, wearing a maid\u2019s cap and apron.\nBut as he was cumbered with a basket of Early Drumhead lettuce and\nTrophy tomatoes and three bunches of asparagus and six bottles of the\nmost expensive Queen olives, he saw no more than that she was one of\nthe maids. But on his way out he came up behind her, and she was whistling\n\u201cFisher\u2019s Hornpipe\u201d so loudly and clearly that all the piccolos in the\nworld should have disjointed themselves and crept into their cases for\nshame. The grocer\u2019s young man stopped and pushed back his cap until it hung on\nhis collar button behind. \u201cThat\u2019s out o\u2019 sight, Kid,\u201d said he. \u201cMy name is Celia, if you please,\u201d said the whistler, dazzling him with\na three-inch smile. \u201cThat\u2019s all right. I\u2019m Thomas McLeod. What part of the house do you\nwork in?\u201d \u201cI\u2019m the\u2014the second parlor maid.\u201d \u201cDo you know the \u2018Falling Waters\u2019?\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d said Celia, \u201cwe don\u2019t know anybody. We got rich too quick\u2014that\nis, Mr. Spraggins did.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll make you acquainted,\u201d said Thomas McLeod. \u201cIt\u2019s a strathspey\u2014the\nfirst cousin to a hornpipe.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "If Celia\u2019s whistling put the piccolos out of commission, Thomas\nMcLeod\u2019s surely made the biggest flutes hunt their holes. He could\nactually whistle _bass_. When he stopped Celia was ready to jump into his delivery wagon and\nride with him clear to the end of the pier and on to the ferry-boat of\nthe Charon line. \u201cI\u2019ll be around to-morrow at 10:15,\u201d said Thomas, \u201cwith some spinach\nand a case of carbonic.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll practice that what-you-may-call-it,\u201d said Celia. \u201cI can whistle a\nfine second.\u201d The processes of courtship are personal, and do not belong to general\nliterature. They should be chronicled in detail only in advertisements\nof iron tonics and in the secret by-laws of the Woman\u2019s Auxiliary of\nthe Ancient Order of the Rat Trap. But genteel writing may contain a\ndescription of certain stages of its progress without intruding upon\nthe province of the X-ray or of park policemen. A day came when Thomas McLeod and Celia lingered at the end of the\nlatticed \u201cpassage.\u201d \u201cSixteen a week isn\u2019t much,\u201d said Thomas, letting his cap rest on his\nshoulder blades. Celia looked through the lattice-work and whistled a dead march.\nShopping with Aunt Henrietta the day before, she had paid that much for\na dozen handkerchiefs. \u201cMaybe I\u2019ll get a raise next month,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cI\u2019ll be around\nto-morrow at the same time with a bag of flour and the laundry soap.\u201d \u201cAll right,\u201d said Celia. \u201cAnnette\u2019s married cousin pays only $20 a\nmonth for a flat in the Bronx.\u201d Never for a moment did she count on the Spraggins money. She knew Aunt\nHenrietta\u2019s invincible pride of caste and pa\u2019s mightiness as a Colossus\nof cash, and she understood that if she chose Thomas she and her\ngrocer\u2019s young man might go whistle for a living. Another day came, Thomas violating the dignity of Nabob Avenue with\n\u201cThe Devil\u2019s Dream,\u201d whistled keenly between his teeth.", "words": 318}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cRaised to eighteen a week yesterday,\u201d he said. \u201cBeen pricing flats\naround Morningside. You want to start untying those apron strings and\nunpinning that cap, old girl.\u201d \u201cOh, Tommy!\u201d said Celia, with her broadest smile. \u201cWon\u2019t that be\nenough? I got Betty to show me how to make a cottage pudding. I guess\nwe could call it a flat pudding if we wanted to.\u201d \u201cAnd tell no lie,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cAnd I can sweep and polish and dust\u2014of course, a parlor maid learns\nthat. And we could whistle duets of evenings.\u201d \u201cThe old man said he\u2019d raise me to twenty at Christmas if Bryan\ncouldn\u2019t think of any harder name to call a Republican than a\n\u2018postponer,\u2019\u201d said the grocer\u2019s young man. \u201cI can sew,\u201d said Celia; \u201cand I know that you must make the gas\ncompany\u2019s man show his badge when he comes to look at the meter; and I\nknow how to put up quince jam and window curtains.\u201d \u201cBully! you\u2019re all right, Cele. Yes, I believe we can pull it off on\neighteen.\u201d As he was jumping into the wagon the second parlor maid braved\ndiscovery by running swiftly to the gate. \u201cAnd, oh, Tommy, I forgot,\u201d she called, softly. \u201cI believe I could make\nyour neckties.\u201d \u201cForget it,\u201d said Thomas decisively. \u201cAnd another thing,\u201d she continued. \u201cSliced cucumbers at night will\ndrive away cockroaches.\u201d \u201cAnd sleep, too, you bet,\u201d said Mr. McLeod. \u201cYes, I believe if I have a\ndelivery to make on the West Side this afternoon I\u2019ll look in at a\nfurniture store I know over there.\u201d", "words": 263}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It was just as the wagon dashed away that old Jacob Spraggins struck\nthe sideboard with his fist and made the mysterious remark about ten\nthousand dollars that you perhaps remember. Which justifies the\nreflection that some stories, as well as life, and puppies thrown into\nwells, move around in circles. Painfully but briefly we must shed light\non Jacob\u2019s words. The foundation of his fortune was made when he was twenty. A poor\ncoal-digger (ever hear of a rich one?) had saved a dollar or two and\nbought a small tract of land on a hillside on which he tried to raise\ncorn. Not a nubbin. Jacob, whose nose was a divining-rod, told him\nthere was a vein of coal beneath. He bought the land from the miner for\n$125 and sold it a month afterward for $10,000. Luckily the miner had\nenough left of his sale money to drink himself into a black coat\nopening in the back, as soon as he heard the news. And so, for forty years afterward, we find Jacob illuminated with the\nsudden thought that if he could make restitution of this sum of money\nto the heirs or assigns of the unlucky miner, respite and Nepenthe\nmight be his. And now must come swift action, for we have here some four thousand\nwords and not a tear shed and never a pistol, joke, safe, nor bottle\ncracked. Old Jacob hired a dozen private detectives to find the heirs, if any\nexisted, of the old miner, Hugh McLeod. Get the point? Of course I know as well as you do that Thomas is going\nto be the heir. I might have concealed the name; but why always hold\nback your mystery till the end? I say, let it come near the middle so\npeople can stop reading there if they want to.", "words": 309}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "After the detectives had trailed false clues about three thousand\ndollars\u2014I mean miles\u2014they cornered Thomas at the grocery and got his\nconfession that Hugh McLeod had been his grandfather, and that there\nwere no other heirs. They arranged a meeting for him and old Jacob one\nmorning in one of their offices. Jacob liked the young man very much. He liked the way he looked\nstraight at him when he talked, and the way he threw his bicycle cap\nover the top of a rose-colored vase on the centre-table. There was a slight flaw in Jacob\u2019s system of restitution. He did not\nconsider that the act, to be perfect, should include confession. So he\nrepresented himself to be the agent of the purchaser of the land who\nhad sent him to refund the sale price for the ease of his conscience. \u201cWell, sir,\u201d said Thomas, \u201cthis sounds to me like an illustrated\npost-card from South Boston with \u2018We\u2019re having a good time here\u2019\nwritten on it. I don\u2019t know the game. Is this ten thousand dollars\nmoney, or do I have to save so many coupons to get it?\u201d Old Jacob counted out to him twenty five-hundred-dollar bills. That was better, he thought, than a check. Thomas put them thoughtfully\ninto his pocket. \u201cGrandfather\u2019s best thanks,\u201d he said, \u201cto the party who sends it.\u201d Jacob talked on, asking him about his work, how he spent his leisure\ntime, and what his ambitions were. The more he saw and heard of Thomas,\nthe better he liked him. He had not met many young men in Bagdad so\nfrank and wholesome.", "words": 269}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI would like to have you visit my house,\u201d he said. \u201cI might help you\nin investing or laying out your money. I am a very wealthy man. I have\na daughter about grown, and I would like for you to know her. There are\nnot many young men I would care to have call on her.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m obliged,\u201d said Thomas. \u201cI\u2019m not much at making calls. It\u2019s\ngenerally the side entrance for mine. And, besides, I\u2019m engaged to a\ngirl that has the Delaware peach crop killed in the blossom. She\u2019s a\nparlor maid in a house where I deliver goods. She won\u2019t be working\nthere much longer, though. Say, don\u2019t forget to give your friend my\ngrandfather\u2019s best regards. You\u2019ll excuse me now; my wagon\u2019s outside\nwith a lot of green stuff that\u2019s got to be delivered. See you again,\nsir.\u201d At eleven Thomas delivered some bunches of parsley and lettuce at the\nSpraggins mansion. Thomas was only twenty-two; so, as he came back, he\ntook out the handful of five-hundred-dollar bills and waved them\ncarelessly. Annette took a pair of eyes as big as creamed onion to the\ncook. \u201cI told you he was a count,\u201d she said, after relating. \u201cHe never would\ncarry on with me.\u201d \u201cBut you say he showed money,\u201d said the cook. \u201cHundreds of thousands,\u201d said Annette. \u201cCarried around loose in his\npockets. And he never would look at me.\u201d \u201cIt was paid to me to-day,\u201d Thomas was explaining to Celia outside. \u201cIt\ncame from my grandfather\u2019s estate. Say, Cele, what\u2019s the use of waiting\nnow? I\u2019m going to quit the job to-night. Why can\u2019t we get married next\nweek?\u201d \u201cTommy,\u201d said Celia. \u201cI\u2019m no parlor maid. I\u2019ve been fooling you. I\u2019m\nMiss Spraggins\u2014Celia Spraggins. The newspapers say I\u2019ll be worth forty\nmillion dollars some day.\u201d", "words": 303}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Thomas pulled his cap down straight on his head for the first time\nsince we have known him. \u201cI suppose then,\u201d said he, \u201cI suppose then you\u2019ll not be marrying me\nnext week. But you _can_ whistle.\u201d \u201cNo,\u201d said Celia, \u201cI\u2019ll not be marrying you next week. My father would\nnever let me marry a grocer\u2019s clerk. But I\u2019ll marry you to-night,\nTommy, if you say so.\u201d Old Jacob Spraggins came home at 9:30 P. M., in his motor car. The make\nof it you will have to surmise sorrowfully; I am giving you\nunsubsidized fiction; had it been a street car I could have told you\nits voltage and the number of wheels it had. Jacob called for his\ndaughter; he had bought a ruby necklace for her, and wanted to hear her\nsay what a kind, thoughtful, dear old dad he was. There was a brief search in the house for her, and then came Annette,\nglowing with the pure flame of truth and loyalty well mixed with envy\nand histrionics. \u201cOh, sir,\u201d said she, wondering if she should kneel, \u201cMiss Celia\u2019s just\nthis minute running away out of the side gate with a young man to be\nmarried. I couldn\u2019t stop her, sir. They went in a cab.\u201d \u201cWhat young man?\u201d roared old Jacob. \u201cA millionaire, if you please, sir\u2014a rich nobleman in disguise. He\ncarries his money with him, and the red peppers and the onions was only\nto blind us, sir. He never did seem to take to me.\u201d Jacob rushed out in time to catch his car. The chauffeur had been\ndelayed by trying to light a cigarette in the wind. \u201cHere, Gaston, or Mike, or whatever you call yourself, scoot around the\ncorner quicker than blazes and see if you can see a cab. If you do, run\nit down.\u201d", "words": 307}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There was a cab in sight a block away. Gaston, or Mike, with his eyes\nhalf shut and his mind on his cigarette, picked up the trail, neatly\ncrowded the cab to the curb and pocketed it. \u201cWhat t\u2019ell you doin\u2019?\u201d yelled the cabman. \u201cPa!\u201d shrieked Celia. \u201cGrandfather\u2019s remorseful friend\u2019s agent!\u201d said Thomas. \u201cWonder what\u2019s\non his conscience now.\u201d \u201cA thousand thunders,\u201d said Gaston, or Mike. \u201cI have no other match.\u201d \u201cYoung man,\u201d said old Jacob, severely, \u201chow about that parlor maid you\nwere engaged to?\u201d A couple of years afterward old Jacob went into the office of his\nprivate secretary. \u201cThe Amalgamated Missionary Society solicits a contribution of $30,000\ntoward the conversion of the Koreans,\u201d said the secretary. \u201cPass \u2019em up,\u201d said Jacob. \u201cThe University of Plumville writes that its yearly endowment fund of\n$50,000 that you bestowed upon it is past due.\u201d \u201cTell \u2019em it\u2019s been cut out.\u201d \u201cThe Scientific Society of Clam Cove, Long Island, asks for $10,000 to\nbuy alcohol to preserve specimens.\u201d \u201cWaste basket.\u201d \u201cThe Society for Providing Healthful Recreation for Working Girls wants\n$20,000 from you to lay out a golf course.\u201d \u201cTell \u2019em to see an undertaker.\u201d \u201cCut \u2019em all out,\u201d went on Jacob. \u201cI\u2019ve quit being a good thing. I need\nevery dollar I can scrape or save. I want you to write to the directors\nof every company that I\u2019m interested in and recommend a 10 per cent.\ncut in salaries. And say\u2014I noticed half a cake of soap lying in a\ncorner of the hall as I came in. I want you to speak to the scrubwoman\nabout waste. I\u2019ve got no money to throw away. And say\u2014we\u2019ve got vinegar\npretty well in hand, haven\u2019t we?\u2019 \u201cThe Globe Spice & Seasons Company,\u201d said secretary, \u201ccontrols the\nmarket at present.\u201d \u201cRaise vinegar two cents a gallon. Notify all our branches.\u201d", "words": 309}, {"story": 39, "title": "A NIGHT IN NEW ARABIA", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Suddenly Jacob Spraggins\u2019s plump red face relaxed into a pulpy grin. He\nwalked over to the secretary\u2019s desk and showed a small red mark on his\nthick forefinger. \u201cBit it,\u201d he said, \u201cdarned if he didn\u2019t, and he ain\u2019t had the tooth\nthree weeks\u2014Jaky McLeod, my Celia\u2019s kid. He\u2019ll be worth a hundred\nmillions by the time he\u2019s twenty-one if I can pile it up for him.\u201d As he was leaving, old Jacob turned at the door, and said: \u201cBetter make that vinegar raise three cents instead of two. I\u2019ll be\nback in an hour and sign the letters.\u201d The true history of the Caliph Harun Al Rashid relates that toward the\nend of his reign he wearied of philanthropy, and caused to be beheaded\nall his former favorites and companions of his \u201cArabian Nights\u201d\nrambles. Happy are we in these days of enlightenment, when the only\ndeath warrant the caliphs can serve on us is in the form of a\ntradesman\u2019s bill. XVIII", "words": 164}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "HABIT\u2014a tendency or aptitude acquired by custom or frequent repetition. The critics have assailed every source of inspiration save one. To that\none we are driven for our moral theme. When we levied upon the masters\nof old they gleefully dug up the parallels to our columns. When we\nstrove to set forth real life they reproached us for trying to imitate\nHenry George, George Washington, Washington Irving, and Irving\nBacheller. We wrote of the West and the East, and they accused us of\nboth Jesse and Henry James. We wrote from our heart\u2014and they said\nsomething about a disordered liver. We took a text from Matthew\nor\u2014er\u2014yes, Deuteronomy, but the preachers were hammering away at the\ninspiration idea before we could get into type. So, driven to the wall,\nwe go for our subject-matter to the reliable, old, moral, unassailable\nvade mecum\u2014the unabridged dictionary. Miss Merriam was cashier at Hinkle\u2019s. Hinkle\u2019s is one of the big\ndowntown restaurants. It is in what the papers call the \u201cfinancial\ndistrict.\u201d Each day from 12 o\u2019clock to 2 Hinkle\u2019s was full of hungry\ncustomers\u2014messenger boys, stenographers, brokers, owners of mining\nstock, promoters, inventors with patents pending\u2014and also people with\nmoney. The cashiership at Hinkle\u2019s was no sinecure. Hinkle egged and toasted\nand griddle-caked and coffeed a good many customers; and he lunched (as\ngood a word as \u201cdined\u201d) many more. It might be said that Hinkle\u2019s\nbreakfast crowd was a contingent, but his luncheon patronage amounted\nto a horde. Miss Merriam sat on a stool at a desk inclosed on three sides by a\nstrong, high fencing of woven brass wire. Through an arched opening at\nthe bottom you thrust your waiter\u2019s check and the money, while your\nheart went pit-a-pat.", "words": 289}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "For Miss Merriam was lovely and capable. She could take 45 cents out of\na $2 bill and refuse an offer of marriage before you could\u2014Next!\u2014lost\nyour chance\u2014please don\u2019t shove. She could keep cool and collected while\nshe collected your check, give you the correct change, win your heart,\nindicate the toothpick stand, and rate you to a quarter of a cent\nbetter than Bradstreet could to a thousand in less time than it takes\nto pepper an egg with one of Hinkle\u2019s casters. There is an old and dignified allusion to the \u201cfierce light that beats\nupon a throne.\u201d The light that beats upon the young lady cashier\u2019s cage\nis also something fierce. The other fellow is responsible for the\nslang. Every male patron of Hinkle\u2019s, from the A. D. T. boys up to the\ncurbstone brokers, adored Miss Merriam. When they paid their checks\nthey wooed her with every wile known to Cupid\u2019s art. Between the meshes\nof the brass railing went smiles, winks, compliments, tender vows,\ninvitations to dinner, sighs, languishing looks and merry banter that\nwas wafted pointedly back by the gifted Miss Merriam. There is no coign of vantage more effective than the position of young\nlady cashier. She sits there, easily queen of the court of commerce;\nshe is duchess of dollars and devoirs, countess of compliments and\ncoin, leading lady of love and luncheon. You take from her a smile and\na Canadian dime, and you go your way uncomplaining. You count the\ncheery word or two that she tosses you as misers count their treasures;\nand you pocket the change for a five uncomputed. Perhaps the\nbrass-bound inaccessibility multiplies her charms\u2014anyhow, she is a\nshirt-waisted angel, immaculate, trim, manicured, seductive,\nbright-eyed, ready, alert\u2014Psyche, Circe, and Ate in one, separating you\nfrom your circulating medium after your sirloin medium.", "words": 306}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The young men who broke bread at Hinkle\u2019s never settled with the\ncashier without an exchange of badinage and open compliment. Many of\nthem went to greater lengths and dropped promissory hints of theatre\ntickets and chocolates. The older men spoke plainly of orange blossoms,\ngenerally withering the tentative petals by after-allusions to Harlem\nflats. One broker, who had been squeezed by copper proposed to Miss\nMerriam more regularly than he ate. During a brisk luncheon hour Miss Merriam\u2019s conversation, while she\ntook money for checks, would run something like this:", "words": 91}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGood morning, Mr. Haskins\u2014sir?\u2014it\u2019s natural, thank you\u2014don\u2019t be quite\nso fresh . . . Hello, Johnny\u2014ten, fifteen, twenty\u2014chase along now or\nthey\u2019ll take the letters off your cap . . . Beg pardon\u2014count it again,\nplease\u2014Oh, don\u2019t mention it . . . Vaudeville?\u2014thanks; not on your\nmoving picture\u2014I was to see Carter in Hedda Gabler on Wednesday night\nwith Mr. Simmons . . . \u2019Scuse me, I thought that was a quarter . . .\nTwenty-five and seventy-five\u2019s a dollar\u2014got that ham-and-cabbage habit\nyet. I see, Billy . . . Who are you addressing?\u2014say\u2014you\u2019ll get all\nthat\u2019s coming to you in a minute . . . Oh, fudge! Mr. Bassett\u2014you\u2019re\nalways fooling\u2014no\u2014? Well, maybe I\u2019ll marry you some day\u2014three, four and\nsixty-five is five . . . Kindly keep them remarks to yourself, if you\nplease . . . Ten cents?\u2014\u2019scuse me; the check calls for seventy\u2014well,\nmaybe it is a one instead of a seven . . . Oh, do you like it that way,\nMr. Saunders?\u2014some prefer a pomp; but they say this Cleo de Merody does\nsuit refined features . . . and ten is fifty . . . Hike along there,\nbuddy; don\u2019t take this for a Coney Island ticket booth . . . Huh?\u2014why,\nMacy\u2019s\u2014don\u2019t it fit nice? Oh, no, it isn\u2019t too cool\u2014these light-weight\nfabrics is all the go this season . . . Come again, please\u2014that\u2019s the\nthird time you\u2019ve tried to\u2014what?\u2014forget it\u2014that lead quarter is an old\nfriend of mine . . . Sixty-five?\u2014must have had your salary raised, Mr.\nWilson . . . I seen you on Sixth Avenue Tuesday afternoon, Mr. De\nForest\u2014swell?\u2014oh, my!\u2014who is she? . . . What\u2019s the matter with it?\u2014why,\nit ain\u2019t money\u2014what?\u2014Columbian half?\u2014well, this ain\u2019t South America . .\n. Yes, I like the mixed best\u2014Friday?\u2014awfully sorry, but I take my\njiu-jitsu lesson on Friday\u2014Thursday, then . . . Thanks\u2014that\u2019s sixteen\ntimes I\u2019ve been told that this morning\u2014I guess I must be beautiful . .\n. Cut that out, please\u2014who do you think I am? . . . Why, Mr.\nWestbrook\u2014do you really think so?\u2014the idea!\u2014one\u2014eighty and twenty\u2019s a\ndollar\u2014thank you ever so much, but I don\u2019t ever go automobile riding\nwith gentlemen\u2014your aunt?\u2014well, that\u2019s different\u2014perhaps . . . Please\ndon\u2019t get fresh\u2014your check was fifteen cents, I believe\u2014kindly step\naside and let . . . Hello, Ben\u2014coming around Thursday evening?\u2014there\u2019s\na gentleman going to send around a box of chocolates, and . . . forty\nand sixty is a dollar, and one is two . . .\u201d", "words": 423}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "About the middle of one afternoon the dizzy goddess Vertigo\u2014whose other\nname is Fortune\u2014suddenly smote an old, wealthy and eccentric banker\nwhile he was walking past Hinkle\u2019s, on his way to a street car. A\nwealthy and eccentric banker who rides in street cars is\u2014move up,\nplease; there are others. A Samaritan, a Pharisee, a man and a policeman who were first on the\nspot lifted Banker McRamsey and carried him into Hinkle\u2019s restaurant.\nWhen the aged but indestructible banker opened his eyes he saw a\nbeautiful vision bending over him with a pitiful, tender smile, bathing\nhis forehead with beef tea and chafing his hands with something frapp\u00e9\nout of a chafing-dish. Mr. McRamsey sighed, lost a vest button, gazed\nwith deep gratitude upon his fair preserveress, and then recovered\nconsciousness. To the Seaside Library all who are anticipating a romance! Banker\nMcRamsey had an aged and respected wife, and his sentiments toward Miss\nMerriam were fatherly. He talked to her for half an hour with\ninterest\u2014not the kind that went with his talks during business hours.\nThe next day he brought Mrs. McRamsey down to see her. The old couple\nwere childless\u2014they had only a married daughter living in Brooklyn. To make a short story shorter, the beautiful cashier won the hearts of\nthe good old couple. They came to Hinkle\u2019s again and again; they\ninvited her to their old-fashioned but splendid home in one of the East\nSeventies. Miss Merriam\u2019s winning loveliness, her sweet frankness and\nimpulsive heart took them by storm. They said a hundred times that Miss\nMerriam reminded them so much of their lost daughter. The Brooklyn\nmatron, n\u00e9e Ramsey, had the figure of Buddha and a face like the ideal\nof an art photographer. Miss Merriam was a combination of curves,\nsmiles, rose leaves, pearls, satin and hair-tonic posters. Enough of\nthe fatuity of parents.", "words": 312}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A month after the worthy couple became acquainted with Miss Merriam,\nshe stood before Hinkle one afternoon and resigned her cashiership. \u201cThey\u2019re going to adopt me,\u201d she told the bereft restaurateur. \u201cThey\u2019re\nfunny old people, but regular dears. And the swell home they have got!\nSay, Hinkle, there isn\u2019t any use of talking\u2014I\u2019m on the \u00e0 la carte to\nwear brown duds and goggles in a whiz wagon, or marry a duke at least.\nStill, I somehow hate to break out of the old cage. I\u2019ve been\ncashiering so long I feel funny doing anything else. I\u2019ll miss joshing\nthe fellows awfully when they line up to pay for the buckwheats and.\nBut I can\u2019t let this chance slide. And they\u2019re awfully good, Hinkle; I\nknow I\u2019ll have a swell time. You owe me nine-sixty-two and a half for\nthe week. Cut out the half if it hurts you, Hinkle.\u201d And they did. Miss Merriam became Miss Rosa McRamsey. And she graced\nthe transition. Beauty is only skin-deep, but the nerves lie very near\nto the skin. Nerve\u2014but just here will you oblige by perusing again the\nquotation with which this story begins? The McRamseys poured out money like domestic champagne to polish their\nadopted one. Milliners, dancing masters and private tutors got it.\nMiss\u2014er\u2014McRamsey was grateful, loving, and tried to forget Hinkle\u2019s. To\ngive ample credit to the adaptability of the American girl, Hinkle\u2019s\ndid fade from her memory and speech most of the time.", "words": 246}, {"story": 40, "title": "THE GIRL AND THE HABIT", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Not every one will remember when the Earl of Hitesbury came to East\nSeventy\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Street, America. He was only a fair-to-medium earl, without\ndebts, and he created little excitement. But you will surely remember\nthe evening when the Daughters of Benevolence held their bazaar in the\nW\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013f-A\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013a Hotel. For you were there, and you wrote a note to Fannie\non the hotel paper, and mailed it, just to show her that\u2014you did not?\nVery well; that was the evening the baby was sick, of course. At the bazaar the McRamseys were prominent. Miss Mer\u2014er\u2014McRamsey was\nexquisitely beautiful. The Earl of Hitesbury had been very attentive to\nher since he dropped in to have a look at America. At the charity\nbazaar the affair was supposed to be going to be pulled off to a\nfinish. An earl is as good as a duke. Better. His standing may be\nlower, but his outstanding accounts are also lower. Our ex-young-lady-cashier was assigned to a booth. She was expected to\nsell worthless articles to nobs and snobs at exorbitant prices. The\nproceeds of the bazaar were to be used for giving the poor children of\nthe slums a Christmas din\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013Say! did you ever wonder where they get\nthe other 364? Miss McRamsey\u2014beautiful, palpitating, excited, charming,\nradiant\u2014fluttered about in her booth. An imitation brass network, with\na little arched opening, fenced her in. Along came the Earl, assured, delicate, accurate, admiring\u2014admiring\ngreatly, and faced the open wicket. \u201cYou look chawming, you know\u2014\u2019pon my word you do\u2014my deah,\u201d he said,\nbeguilingly. Miss McRamsey whirled around. \u201cCut that joshing out,\u201d she said, coolly and briskly. \u201cWho do you think\nyou are talking to? Your check, please. Oh, Lordy!\u2014\u201d Patrons of the bazaar became aware of a commotion and pressed around a\ncertain booth. The Earl of Hitesbury stood near by pulling a pale blond\nand puzzled whisker. \u201cMiss McRamsey has fainted,\u201d some one explained. XIX", "words": 319}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Spring winked a vitreous optic at Editor Westbrook of the _Minerva\nMagazine_, and deflected him from his course. He had lunched in his\nfavorite corner of a Broadway hotel, and was returning to his office\nwhen his feet became entangled in the lure of the vernal coquette.\nWhich is by way of saying that he turned eastward in Twenty-sixth\nStreet, safely forded the spring freshet of vehicles in Fifth Avenue,\nand meandered along the walks of budding Madison Square. The lenient air and the settings of the little park almost formed a\npastoral; the color motif was green\u2014the presiding shade at the creation\nof man and vegetation. The callow grass between the walks was the color of verdigris, a\npoisonous green, reminiscent of the horde of derelict humans that had\nbreathed upon the soil during the summer and autumn. The bursting tree\nbuds looked strangely familiar to those who had botanized among the\ngarnishings of the fish course of a forty-cent dinner. The sky above\nwas of that pale aquamarine tint that ballroom poets rhyme with \u201ctrue\u201d\nand \u201cSue\u201d and \u201ccoo.\u201d The one natural and frank color visible was the\nostensible green of the newly painted benches\u2014a shade between the color\nof a pickled cucumber and that of a last year\u2019s fast-black cravenette\nraincoat. But, to the city-bred eye of Editor Westbrook, the landscape\nappeared a masterpiece. And now, whether you are of those who rush in, or of the gentle\nconcourse that fears to tread, you must follow in a brief invasion of\nthe editor\u2019s mind.", "words": 257}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Editor Westbrook\u2019s spirit was contented and serene. The April number of\nthe _Minerva_ had sold its entire edition before the tenth day of the\nmonth\u2014a newsdealer in Keokuk had written that he could have sold fifty\ncopies more if he had \u2019em. The owners of the magazine had raised his\n(the editor\u2019s) salary; he had just installed in his home a jewel of a\nrecently imported cook who was afraid of policemen; and the morning\npapers had published in full a speech he had made at a publishers\u2019\nbanquet. Also there were echoing in his mind the jubilant notes of a\nsplendid song that his charming young wife had sung to him before he\nleft his up-town apartment that morning. She was taking enthusiastic\ninterest in her music of late, practising early and diligently. When he\nhad complimented her on the improvement in her voice she had fairly\nhugged him for joy at his praise. He felt, too, the benign, tonic\nmedicament of the trained nurse, Spring, tripping softly adown the\nwards of the convalescent city. While Editor Westbrook was sauntering between the rows of park benches\n(already filling with vagrants and the guardians of lawless childhood)\nhe felt his sleeve grasped and held. Suspecting that he was about to be\npanhandled, he turned a cold and unprofitable face, and saw that his\ncaptor was\u2014Dawe\u2014Shackleford Dawe, dingy, almost ragged, the genteel\nscarcely visible in him through the deeper lines of the shabby. While the editor is pulling himself out of his surprise, a flashlight\nbiography of Dawe is offered.", "words": 259}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He was a fiction writer, and one of Westbrook\u2019s old acquaintances. At\none time they might have called each other old friends. Dawe had some\nmoney in those days, and lived in a decent apartment house near\nWestbrook\u2019s. The two families often went to theatres and dinners\ntogether. Mrs. Dawe and Mrs. Westbrook became \u201cdearest\u201d friends. Then\none day a little tentacle of the octopus, just to amuse itself,\ningurgitated Dawe\u2019s capital, and he moved to the Gramercy Park\nneighborhood where one, for a few groats per week, may sit upon one\u2019s\ntrunk under eight-branched chandeliers and opposite Carrara marble\nmantels and watch the mice play upon the floor. Dawe thought to live by\nwriting fiction. Now and then he sold a story. He submitted many to\nWestbrook. The _Minerva_ printed one or two of them; the rest were\nreturned. Westbrook sent a careful and conscientious personal letter\nwith each rejected manuscript, pointing out in detail his reasons for\nconsidering it unavailable. Editor Westbrook had his own clear\nconception of what constituted good fiction. So had Dawe. Mrs. Dawe was\nmainly concerned about the constituents of the scanty dishes of food\nthat she managed to scrape together. One day Dawe had been spouting to\nher about the excellencies of certain French writers. At dinner they\nsat down to a dish that a hungry schoolboy could have encompassed at a\ngulp. Dawe commented. \u201cIt\u2019s Maupassant hash,\u201d said Mrs. Dawe. \u201cIt may not be art, but I do\nwish you would do a five-course Marion Crawford serial with an Ella\nWheeler Wilcox sonnet for dessert. I\u2019m hungry.\u201d As far as this from success was Shackleford Dawe when he plucked Editor\nWestbrook\u2019s sleeve in Madison Square. That was the first time the\neditor had seen Dawe in several months. \u201cWhy, Shack, is this you?\u201d said Westbrook, somewhat awkwardly, for the\nform of his phrase seemed to touch upon the other\u2019s changed appearance.", "words": 319}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSit down for a minute,\u201d said Dawe, tugging at his sleeve. \u201cThis is my\noffice. I can\u2019t come to yours, looking as I do. Oh, sit down\u2014you won\u2019t\nbe disgraced. Those half-plucked birds on the other benches will take\nyou for a swell porch-climber. They won\u2019t know you are only an editor.\u201d \u201cSmoke, Shack?\u201d said Editor Westbrook, sinking cautiously upon the\nvirulent green bench. He always yielded gracefully when he did yield. Dawe snapped at the cigar as a kingfisher darts at a sunperch, or a\ngirl pecks at a chocolate cream. \u201cI have just\u2014\u201d began the editor. \u201cOh, I know; don\u2019t finish,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cGive me a match. You have just\nten minutes to spare. How did you manage to get past my office-boy and\ninvade my sanctum? There he goes now, throwing his club at a dog that\ncouldn\u2019t read the \u2018Keep off the Grass\u2019 signs.\u201d \u201cHow goes the writing?\u201d asked the editor.\n\u201cLook at me,\u201d said Dawe, \u201cfor your answer. Now don\u2019t put on that\nembarrassed, friendly-but-honest look and ask me why I don\u2019t get a job\nas a wine agent or a cab driver. I\u2019m in the fight to a finish. I know I\ncan write good fiction and I\u2019ll force you fellows to admit it yet. I\u2019ll\nmake you change the spelling of \u2018regrets\u2019 to \u2018c-h-e-q-u-e\u2019 before I\u2019m\ndone with you.\u201d Editor Westbrook gazed through his nose-glasses with a sweetly\nsorrowful, omniscient, sympathetic, skeptical expression\u2014the\ncopyrighted expression of the editor beleagured by the unavailable\ncontributor. \u201cHave you read the last story I sent you\u2014\u2018The Alarum of the Soul\u2019?\u201d\nasked Dawe. \u201cCarefully. I hesitated over that story, Shack, really I did. It had\nsome good points. I was writing you a letter to send with it when it\ngoes back to you. I regret\u2014\u201d", "words": 298}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNever mind the regrets,\u201d said Dawe, grimly. \u201cThere\u2019s neither salve nor\nsting in \u2019em any more. What I want to know is _why_. Come now; out with\nthe good points first.\u201d \u201cThe story,\u201d said Westbrook, deliberately, after a suppressed sigh, \u201cis\nwritten around an almost original plot. Characterization\u2014the best you\nhave done. Construction\u2014almost as good, except for a few weak joints\nwhich might be strengthened by a few changes and touches. It was a good\nstory, except\u2014\u201d \u201cI can write English, can\u2019t I?\u201d interrupted Dawe. \u201cI have always told you,\u201d said the editor, \u201cthat you had a style.\u201d \u201cThen the trouble is\u2014\u201d \u201cSame old thing,\u201d said Editor Westbrook. \u201cYou work up to your climax\nlike an artist. And then you turn yourself into a photographer. I don\u2019t\nknow what form of obstinate madness possesses you, but that is what you\ndo with everything that you write. No, I will retract the comparison\nwith the photographer. Now and then photography, in spite of its\nimpossible perspective, manages to record a fleeting glimpse of truth.\nBut you spoil every d\u00e9nouement by those flat, drab, obliterating\nstrokes of your brush that I have so often complained of. If you would\nrise to the literary pinnacle of your dramatic senses, and paint them\nin the high colors that art requires, the postman would leave fewer\nbulky, self-addressed envelopes at your door.\u201d \u201cOh, fiddles and footlights!\u201d cried Dawe, derisively. \u201cYou\u2019ve got that\nold sawmill drama kink in your brain yet. When the man with the black\nmustache kidnaps golden-haired Bessie you are bound to have the mother\nkneel and raise her hands in the spotlight and say: \u2018May high heaven\nwitness that I will rest neither night nor day till the heartless\nvillain that has stolen me child feels the weight of another\u2019s\nvengeance!\u2019\u201d Editor Westbrook conceded a smile of impervious complacency.", "words": 307}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI think,\u201d said he, \u201cthat in real life the woman would express herself\nin those words or in very similar ones.\u201d \u201cNot in a six hundred nights\u2019 run anywhere but on the stage,\u201d said Dawe\nhotly. \u201cI\u2019ll tell you what she\u2019d say in real life. She\u2019d say: \u2018What!\nBessie led away by a strange man? Good Lord! It\u2019s one trouble after\nanother! Get my other hat, I must hurry around to the police-station.\nWhy wasn\u2019t somebody looking after her, I\u2019d like to know? For God\u2019s\nsake, get out of my way or I\u2019ll never get ready. Not that hat\u2014the brown\none with the velvet bows. Bessie must have been crazy; she\u2019s usually\nshy of strangers. Is that too much powder? Lordy! How I\u2019m upset!\u2019 \u201cThat\u2019s the way she\u2019d talk,\u201d continued Dawe. \u201cPeople in real life don\u2019t\nfly into heroics and blank verse at emotional crises. They simply can\u2019t\ndo it. If they talk at all on such occasions they draw from the same\nvocabulary that they use every day, and muddle up their words and ideas\na little more, that\u2019s all.\u201d \u201cShack,\u201d said Editor Westbrook impressively, \u201cdid you ever pick up the\nmangled and lifeless form of a child from under the fender of a street\ncar, and carry it in your arms and lay it down before the distracted\nmother? Did you ever do that and listen to the words of grief and\ndespair as they flowed spontaneously from her lips?\u201d \u201cI never did,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cDid you?\u201d \u201cWell, no,\u201d said Editor Westbrook, with a slight frown. \u201cBut I can well\nimagine what she would say.\u201d \u201cSo can I,\u201d said Dawe.", "words": 272}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And now the fitting time had come for Editor Westbrook to play the\noracle and silence his opinionated contributor. It was not for an\nunarrived fictionist to dictate words to be uttered by the heroes and\nheroines of the _Minerva Magazine_, contrary to the theories of the\neditor thereof. \u201cMy dear Shack,\u201d said he, \u201cif I know anything of life I know that every\nsudden, deep and tragic emotion in the human heart calls forth an\napposite, concordant, conformable and proportionate expression of\nfeeling. How much of this inevitable accord between expression and\nfeeling should be attributed to nature, and how much to the influence\nof art, it would be difficult to say. The sublimely terrible roar of\nthe lioness that has been deprived of her cubs is dramatically as far\nabove her customary whine and purr as the kingly and transcendent\nutterances of Lear are above the level of his senile vaporings. But it\nis also true that all men and women have what may be called a\nsub-conscious dramatic sense that is awakened by a sufficiently deep\nand powerful emotion\u2014a sense unconsciously acquired from literature and\nthe stage that prompts them to express those emotions in language\nbefitting their importance and histrionic value.\u201d \u201cAnd in the name of the seven sacred saddle-blankets of Sagittarius,\nwhere did the stage and literature get the stunt?\u201d asked Dawe. \u201cFrom life,\u201d answered the editor, triumphantly. The story writer rose from the bench and gesticulated eloquently but\ndumbly. He was beggared for words with which to formulate adequately\nhis dissent. On a bench nearby a frowzy loafer opened his red eyes and perceived\nthat his moral support was due a downtrodden brother. \u201cPunch him one, Jack,\u201d he called hoarsely to Dawe. \u201cW\u2019at\u2019s he come\nmakin\u2019 a noise like a penny arcade for amongst gen\u2019lemen that comes in\nthe square to set and think?\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Editor Westbrook looked at his watch with an affected show of leisure. \u201cTell me,\u201d asked Dawe, with truculent anxiety, \u201cwhat especial faults in\n\u2018The Alarum of the Soul\u2019 caused you to throw it down?\u201d \u201cWhen Gabriel Murray,\u201d said Westbrook, \u201cgoes to his telephone and is\ntold that his fianc\u00e9e has been shot by a burglar, he says\u2014I do not\nrecall the exact words, but\u2014\u201d \u201cI do,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cHe says: \u2018Damn Central; she always cuts me off.\u2019\n(And then to his friend) \u2018Say, Tommy, does a thirty-two bullet make a\nbig hole? It\u2019s kind of hard luck, ain\u2019t it? Could you get me a drink\nfrom the sideboard, Tommy? No; straight; nothing on the side.\u2019\u201d \u201cAnd again,\u201d continued the editor, without pausing for argument, \u201cwhen\nBerenice opens the letter from her husband informing her that he has\nfled with the manicure girl, her words are\u2014let me see\u2014\u201d \u201cShe says,\u201d interposed the author: \u201c\u2018Well, what do you think of that!\u2019\u201d \u201cAbsurdly inappropriate words,\u201d said Westbrook, \u201cpresenting an\nanti-climax\u2014plunging the story into hopeless bathos. Worse yet; they\nmirror life falsely. No human being ever uttered banal colloquialisms\nwhen confronted by sudden tragedy.\u201d \u201cWrong,\u201d said Dawe, closing his unshaven jaws doggedly. \u201cI say no man\nor woman ever spouts \u2018high-falutin\u2019 talk when they go up against a real\nclimax. They talk naturally and a little worse.\u201d The editor rose from the bench with his air of indulgence and inside\ninformation. \u201cSay, Westbrook,\u201d said Dawe, pinning him by the lapel, \u201cwould you have\naccepted \u2018The Alarum of the Soul\u2019 if you had believed that the actions\nand words of the characters were true to life in the parts of the story\nthat we discussed?\u201d \u201cIt is very likely that I would, if I believed that way,\u201d said the\neditor. \u201cBut I have explained to you that I do not.\u201d \u201cIf I could prove to you that I am right?\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m sorry, Shack, but I\u2019m afraid I haven\u2019t time to argue any further\njust now.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t want to argue,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cI want to demonstrate to you from\nlife itself that my view is the correct one.\u201d \u201cHow could you do that?\u201d asked Westbrook, in a surprised tone. \u201cListen,\u201d said the writer, seriously. \u201cI have thought of a way. It is\nimportant to me that my theory of true-to-life fiction be recognized as\ncorrect by the magazines. I\u2019ve fought for it for three years, and I\u2019m\ndown to my last dollar, with two months\u2019 rent due.\u201d \u201cI have applied the opposite of your theory,\u201d said the editor, \u201cin\nselecting the fiction for the _Minerva Magazine_. The circulation has\ngone up from ninety thousand to\u2014\u201d \u201cFour hundred thousand,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cWhereas it should have been\nboosted to a million.\u201d \u201cYou said something to me just now about demonstrating your pet\ntheory.\u201d \u201cI will. If you\u2019ll give me about half an hour of your time I\u2019ll prove\nto you that I am right. I\u2019ll prove it by Louise.\u201d \u201cYour wife!\u201d exclaimed Westbrook. \u201cHow?\u201d \u201cWell, not exactly by her, but _with_ her,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cNow, you know\nhow devoted and loving Louise has always been. She thinks I\u2019m the only\ngenuine preparation on the market that bears the old doctor\u2019s\nsignature. She\u2019s been fonder and more faithful than ever, since I\u2019ve\nbeen cast for the neglected genius part.\u201d \u201cIndeed, she is a charming and admirable life companion,\u201d agreed the\neditor. \u201cI remember what inseparable friends she and Mrs. Westbrook\nonce were. We are both lucky chaps, Shack, to have such wives. You must\nbring Mrs. Dawe up some evening soon, and we\u2019ll have one of those\ninformal chafing-dish suppers that we used to enjoy so much.\u201d", "words": 294}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cLater,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cWhen I get another shirt. And now I\u2019ll tell you my\nscheme. When I was about to leave home after breakfast\u2014if you can call\ntea and oatmeal breakfast\u2014Louise told me she was going to visit her\naunt in Eighty-ninth Street. She said she would return at three\no\u2019clock. She is always on time to a minute. It is now\u2014\u201d Dawe glanced toward the editor\u2019s watch pocket. \u201cTwenty-seven minutes to three,\u201d said Westbrook, scanning his\ntime-piece. \u201cWe have just enough time,\u201d said Dawe. \u201cWe will go to my flat at once.\nI will write a note, address it to her and leave it on the table where\nshe will see it as she enters the door. You and I will be in the\ndining-room concealed by the porti\u00e8res. In that note I\u2019ll say that I\nhave fled from her forever with an affinity who understands the needs\nof my artistic soul as she never did. When she reads it we will observe\nher actions and hear her words. Then we will know which theory is the\ncorrect one\u2014yours or mine.\u201d \u201cOh, never!\u201d exclaimed the editor, shaking his head. \u201cThat would be\ninexcusably cruel. I could not consent to have Mrs. Dawe\u2019s feelings\nplayed upon in such a manner.\u201d \u201cBrace up,\u201d said the writer. \u201cI guess I think as much of her as you do.\nIt\u2019s for her benefit as well as mine. I\u2019ve got to get a market for my\nstories in some way. It won\u2019t hurt Louise. She\u2019s healthy and sound. Her\nheart goes as strong as a ninety-eight-cent watch. It\u2019ll last for only\na minute, and then I\u2019ll step out and explain to her. You really owe it\nto me to give me the chance, Westbrook.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Editor Westbrook at length yielded, though but half willingly. And in\nthe half of him that consented lurked the vivisectionist that is in all\nof us. Let him who has not used the scalpel rise and stand in his\nplace. Pity \u2019tis that there are not enough rabbits and guinea-pigs to\ngo around. The two experimenters in Art left the Square and hurried eastward and\nthen to the south until they arrived in the Gramercy neighborhood.\nWithin its high iron railings the little park had put on its smart coat\nof vernal green, and was admiring itself in its fountain mirror.\nOutside the railings the hollow square of crumbling houses, shells of a\nbygone gentry, leaned as if in ghostly gossip over the forgotten doings\nof the vanished quality. _Sic transit gloria urbis_. A block or two north of the Park, Dawe steered the editor again\neastward, then, after covering a short distance, into a lofty but\nnarrow flathouse burdened with a floridly over-decorated fa\u00e7ade. To the\nfifth story they toiled, and Dawe, panting, pushed his latch-key into\nthe door of one of the front flats. When the door opened Editor Westbrook saw, with feelings of pity, how\nmeanly and meagerly the rooms were furnished. \u201cGet a chair, if you can find one,\u201d said Dawe, \u201cwhile I hunt up pen and\nink. Hello, what\u2019s this? Here\u2019s a note from Louise. She must have left\nit there when she went out this morning.\u201d He picked up an envelope that lay on the centre-table and tore it open.\nHe began to read the letter that he drew out of it; and once having\nbegun it aloud he so read it through to the end. These are the words\nthat Editor Westbrook heard: \u201cDEAR SHACKLEFORD:", "words": 292}, {"story": 41, "title": "PROOF OF THE PUDDING", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "By the time you get this I will be about a hundred miles away and\n still a-going. I\u2019ve got a place in the chorus of the Occidental\n Opera Co., and we start on the road to-day at twelve o\u2019clock. I\n didn\u2019t want to starve to death, and so I decided to make my own\n living. I\u2019m not coming back. Mrs. Westbrook is going with me. She\n said she was tired of living with a combination phonograph, iceberg\n and dictionary, and she\u2019s not coming back, either. We\u2019ve been\n practising the songs and dances for two months on the quiet. I hope\n you will be successful, and get along all right! Good-bye. \u201cLOUISE.\u201d Dawe dropped the letter, covered his face with his trembling hands, and\ncried out in a deep, vibrating voice: _\u201cMy God, why hast thou given me this cup to drink? Since she is false,\nthen let Thy Heaven\u2019s fairest gifts, faith and love, become the jesting\nby-words of traitors and fiends!\u201d_ Editor Westbrook\u2019s glasses fell to the floor. The fingers of one hand\nfumbled with a button on his coat as he blurted between his pale lips: _\u201cSay, Shack, ain\u2019t that a hell of a note? Wouldn\u2019t that knock you off\nyour perch, Shack? Ain\u2019t it hell, now, Shack\u2014ain\u2019t it?\u201d_ XX", "words": 212}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Only on the lower East Side of New York do the houses of Capulet and\nMontagu survive. There they do not fight by the book of arithmetic. If\nyou but bite your thumb at an upholder of your opposing house you have\nwork cut out for your steel. On Broadway you may drag your man along a\ndozen blocks by his nose, and he will only bawl for the watch; but in\nthe domain of the East Side Tybalts and Mercutios you must observe the\nniceties of deportment to the wink of any eyelash and to an inch of\nelbow room at the bar when its patrons include foes of your house and\nkin. So, when Eddie McManus, known to the Capulets as Cork McManus, drifted\ninto Dutch Mike\u2019s for a stein of beer, and came upon a bunch of\nMontagus making merry with the suds, he began to observe the strictest\nparliamentary rules. Courtesy forbade his leaving the saloon with his\nthirst unslaked; caution steered him to a place at the bar where the\nmirror supplied the cognizance of the enemy\u2019s movements that his\nindifferent gaze seemed to disdain; experience whispered to him that\nthe finger of trouble would be busy among the chattering steins at\nDutch Mike\u2019s that night. Close by his side drew Brick Cleary, his\nMercutio, companion of his perambulations. Thus they stood, four of the\nMulberry Hill Gang and two of the Dry Dock Gang, minding their P\u2019s and\nQ\u2019s so solicitously that Dutch Mike kept one eye on his customers and\nthe other on an open space beneath his bar in which it was his custom\nto seek safety whenever the ominous politeness of the rival\nassociations congealed into the shapes of bullets and cold steel.", "words": 292}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But we have not to do with the wars of the Mulberry Hills and the Dry\nDocks. We must to Rooney\u2019s, where, on the most blighted dead branch of\nthe tree of life, a little pale orchid shall bloom. Overstrained etiquette at last gave way. It is not known who first\noverstepped the bounds of punctilio; but the consequences were\nimmediate. Buck Malone, of the Mulberry Hills, with a Dewey-like\nswiftness, got an eight-inch gun swung round from his hurricane deck.\nBut McManus\u2019s simile must be the torpedo. He glided in under the guns\nand slipped a scant three inches of knife blade between the ribs of the\nMulberry Hill cruiser. Meanwhile Brick Cleary, a devotee to strategy,\nhad skimmed across the lunch counter and thrown the switch of the\nelectrics, leaving the combat to be waged by the light of gunfire\nalone. Dutch Mike crawled from his haven and ran into the street crying\nfor the watch instead of for a Shakespeare to immortalize the Cimmerian\nshindy. The cop came, and found a prostrate, bleeding Montagu supported by\nthree distrait and reticent followers of the House. Faithful to the\nethics of the gangs, no one knew whence the hurt came. There was no\nCapulet to be seen. \u201cRaus mit der interrogatories,\u201d said Buck Malone to the officer. \u201cSure\nI know who done it. I always manages to get a bird\u2019s eye view of any\nguy that comes up an\u2019 makes a show case for a hardware store out of me.\nNo. I\u2019m not telling you his name. I\u2019ll settle with um meself. Wow\u2014ouch!\nEasy, boys! Yes, I\u2019ll attend to his case meself. I\u2019m not making any\ncomplaint.\u201d", "words": 278}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At midnight McManus strolled around a pile of lumber near an East Side\ndock, and lingered in the vicinity of a certain water plug. Brick\nCleary drifted casually to the trysting place ten minutes later. \u201cHe\u2019ll\nmaybe not croak,\u201d said Brick; \u201cand he won\u2019t tell, of course. But Dutch\nMike did. He told the police he was tired of having his place shot up.\nIt\u2019s unhandy just now, because Tim Corrigan\u2019s in Europe for a week\u2019s\nend with Kings. He\u2019ll be back on the _Kaiser Williams_ next Friday.\nYou\u2019ll have to duck out of sight till then. Tim\u2019ll fix it up all right\nfor us when he comes back.\u201d This goes to explain why Cork McManus went into Rooney\u2019s one night and\nthere looked upon the bright, stranger face of Romance for the first\ntime in his precarious career. Until Tim Corrigan should return from his jaunt among Kings and Princes\nand hold up his big white finger in private offices, it was unsafe for\nCork in any of the old haunts of his gang. So he lay, perdu, in the\nhigh rear room of a Capulet, reading pink sporting sheets and cursing\nthe slow paddle wheels of the _Kaiser Wilhelm_.", "words": 201}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It was on Thursday evening that Cork\u2019s seclusion became intolerable to\nhim. Never a hart panted for water fountain as he did for the cool\ntouch of a drifting stein, for the firm security of a foot-rail in the\nhollow of his shoe and the quiet, hearty challenges of friendship and\nrepartee along and across the shining bars. But he must avoid the\ndistrict where he was known. The cops were looking for him everywhere,\nfor news was scarce, and the newspapers were harping again on the\nfailure of the police to suppress the gangs. If they got him before\nCorrigan came back, the big white finger could not be uplifted; it\nwould be too late then. But Corrigan would be home the next day, so he\nfelt sure there would be small danger in a little excursion that night\namong the crass pleasures that represented life to him. At half-past twelve McManus stood in a darkish cross-town street\nlooking up at the name \u201cRooney\u2019s,\u201d picked out by incandescent lights\nagainst a signboard over a second-story window. He had heard of the\nplace as a tough \u201chang-out\u201d; with its frequenters and its locality he\nwas unfamiliar. Guided by certain unerring indications common to all\nsuch resorts, he ascended the stairs and entered the large room over\nthe caf\u00e9. Here were some twenty or thirty tables, at this time about half-filled\nwith Rooney\u2019s guests. Waiters served drinks. At one end a human pianola\nwith drugged eyes hammered the keys with automatic and furious\nunprecision. At merciful intervals a waiter would roar or squeak a\nsong\u2014songs full of \u201cMr. Johnsons\u201d and \u201cbabes\u201d and \u201ccoons\u201d\u2014historical\nword guaranties of the genuineness of African melodies composed by red\nwaistcoated young gentlemen, natives of the cotton fields and rice\nswamps of West Twenty-eighth Street.", "words": 298}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "For one brief moment you must admire Rooney with me as he receives,\nseats, manipulates, and chaffs his guests. He is twenty-nine. He has\nWellington\u2019s nose, Dante\u2019s chin, the cheek-bones of an Iroquois, the\nsmile of Talleyrand, Corbett\u2019s foot work, and the poise of an\neleven-year-old East Side Central Park Queen of the May. He is assisted\nby a lieutenant known as Frank, a pudgy, easy chap, swell-dressed, who\ngoes among the tables seeing that dull care does not intrude. Now, what\nis there about Rooney\u2019s to inspire all this pother? It is more\nrespectable by daylight; stout ladies with children and mittens and\nbundles and unpedigreed dogs drop up of afternoons for a stein and a\nchat. Even by gaslight the diversions are melancholy i\u2019 the mouth\u2014drink\nand rag-time, and an occasional surprise when the waiter swabs the suds\nfrom under your sticky glass. There is an answer. Transmigration! The\nsoul of Sir Walter Raleigh has traveled from beneath his slashed\ndoublet to a kindred home under Rooney\u2019s visible plaid waistcoat.\nRooney\u2019s is twenty years ahead of the times. Rooney has removed the\nembargo. Rooney has spread his cloak upon the soggy crossing of public\nopinion, and any Elizabeth who treads upon it is as much a queen as\nanother. Attend to the revelation of the secret. In Rooney\u2019s ladies may\nsmoke!", "words": 223}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "McManus sat down at a vacant table. He paid for the glass of beer that\nhe ordered, tilted his narrow-brimmed derby to the back of his\nbrick-dust head, twined his feet among the rungs of his chair, and\nheaved a sigh of contentment from the breathing spaces of his innermost\nsoul; for this mud honey was clarified sweetness to his taste. The sham\ngaiety, the hectic glow of counterfeit hospitality, the self-conscious,\njoyless laughter, the wine-born warmth, the loud music retrieving the\nhour from frequent whiles of awful and corroding silence, the presence\nof well-clothed and frank-eyed beneficiaries of Rooney\u2019s removal of the\nrestrictions laid upon the weed, the familiar blended odors of soaked\nlemon peel, flat beer, and _peau d\u2019Espagne_\u2014all these were manna to\nCork McManus, hungry for his week in the desert of the Capulet\u2019s high\nrear room. A girl, alone, entered Rooney\u2019s, glanced around with leisurely\nswiftness, and sat opposite McManus at his table. Her eyes rested upon\nhim for two seconds in the look with which woman reconnoitres all men\nwhom she for the first time confronts. In that space of time she will\ndecide upon one of two things\u2014either to scream for the police, or that\nshe may marry him later on. Her brief inspection concluded, the girl laid on the table a worn red\nmorocco shopping bag with the inevitable top-gallant sail of frayed\nlace handkerchief flying from a corner of it. After she had ordered a\nsmall beer from the immediate waiter she took from her bag a box of\ncigarettes and lighted one with slightly exaggerated ease of manner.\nThen she looked again in the eyes of Cork McManus and smiled. Instantly the doom of each was sealed.", "words": 286}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The unqualified desire of a man to buy clothes and build fires for a\nwoman for a whole lifetime at first sight of her is not uncommon among\nthat humble portion of humanity that does not care for Bradstreet or\ncoats-of-arms or Shaw\u2019s plays. Love at first sight has occurred a time\nor two in high life; but, as a rule, the extempore mania is to be found\namong unsophisticated creatures such as the dove, the blue-tailed\ndingbat, and the ten-dollar-a-week clerk. Poets, subscribers to all\nfiction magazines, and schatchens, take notice. With the exchange of the mysterious magnetic current came to each of\nthem the instant desire to lie, pretend, dazzle and deceive, which is\nthe worst thing about the hypocritical disorder known as love. \u201cHave another beer?\u201d suggested Cork. In his circle the phrase was\nconsidered to be a card, accompanied by a letter of introduction and\nreferences. \u201cNo, thanks,\u201d said the girl, raising her eyebrows and choosing her\nconventional words carefully. \u201cI\u2014merely dropped in for\u2014a slight\nrefreshment.\u201d The cigarette between her fingers seemed to require\nexplanation. \u201cMy aunt is a Russian lady,\u201d she concluded, \u201cand we often\nhave a post perannual cigarette after dinner at home.\u201d \u201cCheese it!\u201d said Cork, whom society airs oppressed. \u201cYour fingers are\nas yellow as mine.\u201d \u201cSay,\u201d said the girl, blazing upon him with low-voiced indignation,\n\u201cwhat do you think I am? Say, who do you think you are talking to?\nWhat?\u201d", "words": 240}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "She was pretty to look at. Her eyes were big, brown, intrepid and\nbright. Under her flat sailor hat, planted jauntily on one side, her\ncrinkly, tawny hair parted and was drawn back, low and massy, in a\nthick, pendant knot behind. The roundness of girlhood still lingered in\nher chin and neck, but her cheeks and fingers were thinning slightly.\nShe looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion, and sullen wonder.\nHer smart, short tan coat was soiled and expensive. Two inches below\nher black dress dropped the lowest flounce of a heliotrope silk\nunderskirt. \u201cBeg your pardon,\u201d said Cork, looking at her admiringly. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean\nanything. Sure, it\u2019s no harm to smoke, Maudy.\u201d \u201cRooney\u2019s,\u201d said the girl, softened at once by his amends, \u201cis the only\nplace I know where a lady can smoke. Maybe it ain\u2019t a nice habit, but\naunty lets us at home. And my name ain\u2019t Maudy, if you please; it\u2019s\nRuby Delamere.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s a swell handle,\u201d said Cork approvingly. \u201cMine\u2019s\nMcManus\u2014Cor\u2014er\u2014Eddie McManus.\u201d \u201cOh, you can\u2019t help that,\u201d laughed Ruby. \u201cDon\u2019t apologize.\u201d Cork looked seriously at the big clock on Rooney\u2019s wall. The girl\u2019s\nubiquitous eyes took in the movement. \u201cI know it\u2019s late,\u201d she said, reaching for her bag; \u201cbut you know how\nyou want a smoke when you want one. Ain\u2019t Rooney\u2019s all right? I never\nsaw anything wrong here. This is twice I\u2019ve been in. I work in a\nbookbindery on Third Avenue. A lot of us girls have been working\novertime three nights a week. They won\u2019t let you smoke there, of\ncourse. I just dropped in here on my way home for a puff. Ain\u2019t it all\nright in here? If it ain\u2019t, I won\u2019t come any more.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt\u2019s a little bit late for you to be out alone anywhere,\u201d said Cork.\n\u201cI\u2019m not wise to this particular joint; but anyhow you don\u2019t want to\nhave your picture taken in it for a present to your Sunday School\nteacher. Have one more beer, and then say I take you home.\u201d \u201cBut I don\u2019t know you,\u201d said the girl, with fine scrupulosity. \u201cI don\u2019t\naccept the company of gentlemen I ain\u2019t acquainted with. My aunt never\nwould allow that.\u201d \u201cWhy,\u201d said Cork McManus, pulling his ear, \u201cI\u2019m the latest thing in\nsuitings with side vents and bell skirt when it comes to escortin\u2019 a\nlady. You bet you\u2019ll find me all right, Ruby. And I\u2019ll give you a tip\nas to who I am. My governor is one of the hottest cross-buns of the\nWall Street push. Morgan\u2019s cab horse casts a shoe every time the old\nman sticks his head out the window. Me! Well, I\u2019m in trainin\u2019 down the\nStreet. The old man\u2019s goin\u2019 to put a seat on the Stock Exchange in my\nstockin\u2019 my next birthday. But it all sounds like a lemon to me. What I\nlike is golf and yachtin\u2019 and\u2014er\u2014well, say a corkin\u2019 fast ten-round\nbout between welter-weights with walkin\u2019 gloves.\u201d \u201cI guess you can walk to the door with me,\u201d said the girl hesitatingly,\nbut with a certain pleased flutter. \u201cStill I never heard anything extra\ngood about Wall Street brokers, or sports who go to prize fights,\neither. Ain\u2019t you got any other recommendations?\u201d \u201cI think you\u2019re the swellest looker I\u2019ve had my lamps on in little old\nNew York,\u201d said Cork impressively. \u201cThat\u2019ll be about enough of that, now. Ain\u2019t you the kidder!\u201d She\nmodified her chiding words by a deep, long, beaming, smile-embellished\nlook at her cavalier. \u201cWe\u2019ll drink our beer before we go, ha?\u201d", "words": 307}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A waiter sang. The tobacco smoke grew denser, drifting and rising in\nspirals, waves, tilted layers, cumulus clouds, cataracts and suspended\nfogs like some fifth element created from the ribs of the ancient four.\nLaughter and chat grew louder, stimulated by Rooney\u2019s liquids and\nRooney\u2019s gallant hospitality to Lady Nicotine. One o\u2019clock struck. Down-stairs there was a sound of closing and\nlocking doors. Frank pulled down the green shades of the front windows\ncarefully. Rooney went below in the dark hall and stood at the front\ndoor, his cigarette cached in the hollow of his hand. Thenceforth\nwhoever might seek admittance must present a countenance familiar to\nRooney\u2019s hawk\u2019s eye\u2014the countenance of a true sport. Cork McManus and the bookbindery girl conversed absorbedly, with their\nelbows on the table. Their glasses of beer were pushed to one side,\nscarcely touched, with the foam on them sunken to a thin white scum.\nSince the stroke of one the stale pleasures of Rooney\u2019s had become\nrenovated and spiced; not by any addition to the list of distractions,\nbut because from that moment the sweets became stolen ones. The\nflattest glass of beer acquired the tang of illegality; the mildest\nclaret punch struck a knockout blow at law and order; the harmless and\ngenial company became outlaws, defying authority and rule. For after\nthe stroke of one in such places as Rooney\u2019s, where neither bed nor\nboard is to be had, drink may not be set before the thirsty of the city\nof the four million. It is the law. \u201cSay,\u201d said Cork McManus, almost covering the table with his eloquent\nchest and elbows, \u201cwas that dead straight about you workin\u2019 in the\nbookbindery and livin\u2019 at home\u2014and just happenin\u2019 in here\u2014and\u2014and all\nthat spiel you gave me?\u201d", "words": 295}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSure it was,\u201d answered the girl with spirit. \u201cWhy, what do you think?\nDo you suppose I\u2019d lie to you? Go down to the shop and ask \u2019em. I\nhanded it to you on the level.\u201d \u201cOn the dead level?\u201d said Cork. \u201cThat\u2019s the way I want it; because\u2014\u201d \u201cBecause what?\u201d \u201cI throw up my hands,\u201d said Cork. \u201cYou\u2019ve got me goin\u2019. You\u2019re the girl\nI\u2019ve been lookin\u2019 for. Will you keep company with me, Ruby?\u201d \u201cWould you like me to\u2014Eddie?\u201d \u201cSurest thing. But I wanted a straight story about\u2014about yourself, you\nknow. When a fellow had a girl\u2014a steady girl\u2014she\u2019s got to be all right,\nyou know. She\u2019s got to be straight goods.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll find I\u2019ll be straight goods, Eddie.\u201d \u201cOf course you will. I believe what you told me. But you can\u2019t blame me\nfor wantin\u2019 to find out. You don\u2019t see many girls smokin\u2019 cigarettes in\nplaces like Rooney\u2019s after midnight that are like you.\u201d The girl flushed a little and lowered her eyes. \u201cI see that now,\u201d she\nsaid meekly. \u201cI didn\u2019t know how bad it looked. But I won\u2019t do it any\nmore. And I\u2019ll go straight home every night and stay there. And I\u2019ll\ngive up cigarettes if you say so, Eddie\u2014I\u2019ll cut \u2019em out from this\nminute on.\u201d Cork\u2019s air became judicial, proprietary, condemnatory, yet sympathetic.\n\u201cA lady can smoke,\u201d he decided, slowly, \u201cat times and places. Why?\nBecause it\u2019s bein\u2019 a lady that helps her pull it off.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m going to quit. There\u2019s nothing to it,\u201d said the girl. She flicked\nthe stub of her cigarette to the floor. \u201cAt times and places,\u201d repeated Cork. \u201cWhen I call round for you of\nevenin\u2019s we\u2019ll hunt out a dark bench in Stuyvesant Square and have a\npuff or two. But no more Rooney\u2019s at one o\u2019clock\u2014see?\u201d", "words": 303}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cEddie, do you really like me?\u201d The girl searched his hard but frank\nfeatures eagerly with anxious eyes. \u201cOn the dead level.\u201d \u201cWhen are you coming to see me\u2014where I live?\u201d \u201cThursday\u2014day after to-morrow evenin\u2019. That suit you?\u201d \u201cFine. I\u2019ll be ready for you. Come about seven. Walk to the door with\nme to-night and I\u2019ll show you where I live. Don\u2019t forget, now. And\ndon\u2019t you go to see any other girls before then, mister! I bet you\nwill, though.\u201d \u201cOn the dead level,\u201d said Cork, \u201cyou make \u2019em all look like rag-dolls\nto me. Honest, you do. I know when I\u2019m suited. On the dead level, I\ndo.\u201d Against the front door down-stairs repeated heavy blows were delivered.\nThe loud crashes resounded in the room above. Only a trip-hammer or a\npoliceman\u2019s foot could have been the author of those sounds. Rooney\njumped like a bullfrog to a corner of the room, turned off the electric\nlights and hurried swiftly below. The room was left utterly dark except\nfor the winking red glow of cigars and cigarettes. A second volley of\ncrashes came up from the assaulted door. A little, rustling, murmuring\npanic moved among the besieged guests. Frank, cool, smooth, reassuring,\ncould be seen in the rosy glow of the burning tobacco, going from table\nto table. \u201cAll keep still!\u201d was his caution. \u201cDon\u2019t talk or make any noise!\nEverything will be all right. Now, don\u2019t feel the slightest alarm.\nWe\u2019ll take care of you all.\u201d Ruby felt across the table until Cork\u2019s firm hand closed upon hers.\n\u201cAre you afraid, Eddie?\u201d she whispered. \u201cAre you afraid you\u2019ll get a\nfree ride?\u201d \u201cNothin\u2019 doin\u2019 in the teeth-chatterin\u2019 line,\u201d said Cork. \u201cI guess\nRooney\u2019s been slow with his envelope. Don\u2019t you worry, girly; I\u2019ll look\nout for you all right.\u201d", "words": 302}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Yet Mr. McManus\u2019s ease was only skin- and muscle-deep. With the police\nlooking everywhere for Buck Malone\u2019s assailant, and with Corrigan still\non the ocean wave, he felt that to be caught in a police raid would\nmean an ended career for him. He wished he had remained in the high\nrear room of the true Capulet reading the pink extras. Rooney seemed to have opened the front door below and engaged the\npolice in conference in the dark hall. The wordless low growl of their\nvoices came up the stairway. Frank made a wireless news station of\nhimself at the upper door. Suddenly he closed the door, hurried to the\nextreme rear of the room and lighted a dim gas jet. \u201cThis way, everybody!\u201d he called sharply. \u201cIn a hurry; but no noise,\nplease!\u201d The guests crowded in confusion to the rear. Rooney\u2019s lieutenant swung\nopen a panel in the wall, overlooking the back yard, revealing a ladder\nalready placed for the escape. \u201cDown and out, everybody!\u201d he commanded. \u201cLadies first! Less talking,\nplease! Don\u2019t crowd! There\u2019s no danger.\u201d Among the last, Cork and Ruby waited their turn at the open panel.\nSuddenly she swept him aside and clung to his arm fiercely. \u201cBefore we go out,\u201d she whispered in his ear\u2014\u201cbefore anything happens,\ntell me again, Eddie, do you l\u2014do you really like me?\u201d \u201cOn the dead level,\u201d said Cork, holding her close with one arm, \u201cwhen\nit comes to you, I\u2019m all in.\u201d When they turned they found they were lost and in darkness. The last of\nthe fleeing customers had descended. Half way across the yard they bore\nthe ladder, stumbling, giggling, hurrying to place it against an\nadjoining low building over the roof of which their only route to\nsafety. \u201cWe may as well sit down,\u201d said Cork grimly. \u201cMaybe Rooney will stand\nthe cops off, anyhow.\u201d", "words": 312}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "They sat at a table; and their hands came together again. A number of men then entered the dark room, feeling their way about.\nOne of them, Rooney himself, found the switch and turned on the\nelectric light. The other man was a cop of the old r\u00e9gime\u2014a big cop, a\nthick cop, a fuming, abrupt cop\u2014not a pretty cop. He went up to the\npair at the table and sneered familiarly at the girl. \u201cWhat are youse doin\u2019 in here?\u201d he asked. \u201cDropped in for a smoke,\u201d said Cork mildly. \u201cHad any drinks?\u201d \u201cNot later than one o\u2019clock.\u201d \u201cGet out\u2014quick!\u201d ordered the cop. Then, \u201cSit down!\u201d he countermanded. He took off Cork\u2019s hat roughly and scrutinized him shrewdly. \u201cYour\nname\u2019s McManus.\u201d \u201cBad guess,\u201d said Cork. \u201cIt\u2019s Peterson.\u201d \u201cCork McManus, or something like that,\u201d said the cop. \u201cYou put a knife\ninto a man in Dutch Mike\u2019s saloon a week ago.\u201d \u201cAw, forget it!\u201d said Cork, who perceived a shade of doubt in the\nofficer\u2019s tones. \u201cYou\u2019ve got my mug mixed with somebody else\u2019s.\u201d \u201cHave I? Well, you\u2019ll come to the station with me, anyhow, and be\nlooked over. The description fits you all right.\u201d The cop twisted his\nfingers under Cork\u2019s collar. \u201cCome on!\u201d he ordered roughly. Cork glanced at Ruby. She was pale, and her thin nostrils quivered. Her\nquick eye danced from one man\u2019s face to the other as they spoke or\nmoved. What hard luck! Cork was thinking\u2014Corrigan on the briny; and\nRuby met and lost almost within an hour! Somebody at the police station\nwould recognize him, without a doubt. Hard luck! But suddenly the girl sprang up and hurled herself with both arms\nextended against the cop. His hold on Cork\u2019s collar was loosened and he\nstumbled back two or three paces.", "words": 298}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDon\u2019t go so fast, Maguire!\u201d she cried in shrill fury. \u201cKeep your hands\noff my man! You know me, and you know I\u2019m givin\u2019 you good advice. Don\u2019t\nyou touch him again! He\u2019s not the guy you are lookin\u2019 for\u2014I\u2019ll stand\nfor that.\u201d \u201cSee here, Fanny,\u201d said the Cop, red and angry, \u201cI\u2019ll take you, too, if\nyou don\u2019t look out! How do you know this ain\u2019t the man I want? What are\nyou doing in here with him?\u201d \u201cHow do I know?\u201d said the girl, flaming red and white by turns.\n\u201cBecause I\u2019ve known him a year. He\u2019s mine. Oughtn\u2019t I to know? And what\nam I doin\u2019 here with him? That\u2019s easy.\u201d She stooped low and reached down somewhere into a swirl of flirted\ndraperies, heliotrope and black. An elastic snapped, she threw on the\ntable toward Cork a folded wad of bills. The money slowly straightened\nitself with little leisurely jerks. \u201cTake that, Jimmy, and let\u2019s go,\u201d said the girl. \u201cI\u2019m declarin\u2019 the\nusual dividends, Maguire,\u201d she said to the officer. \u201cYou had your usual\nfive-dollar graft at the usual corner at ten.\u201d \u201cA lie!\u201d said the cop, turning purple. \u201cYou go on my beat again and\nI\u2019ll arrest you every time I see you.\u201d \u201cNo, you won\u2019t,\u201d said the girl. \u201cAnd I\u2019ll tell you why. Witnesses saw\nme give you the money to-night, and last week, too. I\u2019ve been getting\nfixed for you.\u201d Cork put the wad of money carefully into his pocket, and said: \u201cCome\non, Fanny; let\u2019s have some chop suey before we go home.\u201d \u201cClear out, quick, both of you, or I\u2019ll\u2014\u201d The cop\u2019s bluster trailed away into inconsequentiality.", "words": 276}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the corner of the street the two halted. Cork handed back the money\nwithout a word. The girl took it and slipped it slowly into her\nhand-bag. Her expression was the same she had worn when she entered\nRooney\u2019s that night\u2014she looked upon the world with defiance, suspicion\nand sullen wonder. \u201cI guess I might as well say good-bye here,\u201d she said dully. \u201cYou won\u2019t\nwant to see me again, of course. Will you\u2014shake hands\u2014Mr. McManus.\u201d \u201cI mightn\u2019t have got wise if you hadn\u2019t give the snap away,\u201d said Cork.\n\u201cWhy did you do it?\u201d \u201cYou\u2019d have been pinched if I hadn\u2019t. That\u2019s why. Ain\u2019t that reason\nenough?\u201d Then she began to cry. \u201cHonest, Eddie, I was goin\u2019 to be the\nbest girl in the world. I hated to be what I am; I hated men; I was\nready almost to die when I saw you. And you seemed different from\neverybody else. And when I found you liked me, too, why, I thought I\u2019d\nmake you believe I was good, and I was goin\u2019 to be good. When you asked\nto come to my house and see me, why, I\u2019d have died rather than do\nanything wrong after that. But what\u2019s the use of talking about it? I\u2019ll\nsay good-by, if you will, Mr. McManus.\u201d Cork was pulling at his ear. \u201cI knifed Malone,\u201d said he. \u201cI was the one\nthe cop wanted.\u201d \u201cOh, that\u2019s all right,\u201d said the girl listlessly. \u201cIt didn\u2019t make any\ndifference about that.\u201d \u201cThat was all hot air about Wall Street. I don\u2019t do nothin\u2019 but hang\nout with a tough gang on the East Side.\u201d \u201cThat was all right, too,\u201d repeated the girl. \u201cIt didn\u2019t make any\ndifference.\u201d Cork straightened himself, and pulled his hat down low. \u201cI could get a\njob at O\u2019Brien\u2019s,\u201d he said aloud, but to himself. \u201cGood-by,\u201d said the girl.", "words": 312}, {"story": 42, "title": "PAST ONE AT ROONEY\u2019S", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cCome on,\u201d said Cork, taking her arm. \u201cI know a place.\u201d Two blocks away he turned with her up the steps of a red brick house\nfacing a little park. \u201cWhat house is this?\u201d she asked, drawing back. \u201cWhy are you going in\nthere?\u201d A street lamp shone brightly in front. There was a brass nameplate at\none side of the closed front doors. Cork drew her firmly up the steps.\n\u201cRead that,\u201d said he. She looked at the name on the plate, and gave a cry between a moan and\na scream. \u201cNo, no, no, Eddie! Oh, my God, no! I won\u2019t let you do\nthat\u2014not now! Let me go! You shan\u2019t do that! You can\u2019t\u2014you mus\u2019n\u2019t! Not\nafter you know! No, no! Come away quick! Oh, my God! Please, Eddie,\ncome!\u201d Half fainting, she reeled, and was caught in the bend of his arm.\nCork\u2019s right hand felt for the electric button and pressed it long. Another cop\u2014how quickly they scent trouble when trouble is on the\nwing!\u2014came along, saw them, and ran up the steps. \u201cHere! What are you\ndoing with that girl?\u201d he called gruffly. \u201cShe\u2019ll be all right in a minute,\u201d said Cork. \u201cIt\u2019s a straight deal.\u201d \u201cReverend Jeremiah Jones,\u201d read the cop from the door-plate with true\ndetective cunning. \u201cCorrect,\u201d said Cork. \u201cOn the dead level, we\u2019re goin\u2019 to get married.\u201d XXI", "words": 228}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Let the story wreck itself on the spreading rails of the _Non Sequitur_\nLimited, if it will; first you must take your seat in the observation\ncar \u201c_Raison d\u2019\u00eatre_\u201d for one moment. It is for no longer than to\nconsider a brief essay on the subject\u2014let us call it: \u201cWhat\u2019s Around\nthe Corner.\u201d _Omne mundus in duas partes divisum est_\u2014men who wear rubbers and pay\npoll-taxes, and men who discover new continents. There are no more\ncontinents to discover; but by the time overshoes are out of date and\nthe poll has developed into an income tax, the other half will be\nparalleling the canals of Mars with radium railways. Fortune, Chance, and Adventure are given as synonymous in the\ndictionaries. To the knowing each has a different meaning. Fortune is a\nprize to be won. Adventure is the road to it. Chance is what may lurk\nin the shadows at the roadside. The face of Fortune is radiant and\nalluring; that of Adventure is flushed and heroic. The face of Chance\nis the beautiful countenance\u2014perfect because vague and dream-born\u2014that\nwe see in our tea-cups at breakfast while we growl over our chops and\ntoast. The VENTURER is one who keeps his eye on the hedgerows and wayside\ngroves and meadows while he travels the road to Fortune. That is the\ndifference between him and the Adventurer. Eating the forbidden fruit\nwas the best record ever made by a Venturer. Trying to prove that it\nhappened is the highest work of the Adventuresome. To be either is\ndisturbing to the cosmogony of creation. So, as bracket-sawed and\ncity-directoried citizens, let us light our pipes, chide the children\nand the cat, arrange ourselves in the willow rocker under the\nflickering gas jet at the coolest window and scan this little tale of\ntwo modern followers of Chance.", "words": 306}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDid you ever hear that story about the man from the West?\u201d asked\nBillinger, in the little dark-oak room to your left as you penetrate\nthe interior of the Powhatan Club. \u201cDoubtless,\u201d said John Reginald Forster, rising and leaving the room. Forster got his straw hat (straws will be in and maybe out again long\nbefore this is printed) from the checkroom boy, and walked out of the\nair (as Hamlet says). Billinger was used to having his stories insulted\nand would not mind. Forster was in his favorite mood and wanted to go\naway from anywhere. A man, in order to get on good terms with himself,\nmust have his opinions corroborated and his moods matched by some one\nelse. (I had written that \u201csomebody\u201d; but an A. D. T. boy who once took\na telegram for me pointed out that I could save money by using the\ncompound word. This is a vice versa case.) Forster\u2019s favorite mood was that of greatly desiring to be a follower\nof Chance. He was a Venturer by nature, but convention, birth,\ntradition and the narrowing influences of the tribe of Manhattan had\ndenied him full privilege. He had trodden all the main-traveled\nthoroughfares and many of the side roads that are supposed to relieve\nthe tedium of life. But none had sufficed. The reason was that he knew\nwhat was to be found at the end of every street. He knew from\nexperience and logic almost precisely to what end each digression from\nroutine must lead. He found a depressing monotony in all the variations\nthat the music of his sphere had grafted upon the tune of life. He had\nnot learned that, although the world was made round, the circle has\nbeen squared, and that it\u2019s true interest is to be in \u201cWhat\u2019s Around\nthe Corner.\u201d", "words": 306}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Forster walked abroad aimlessly from the Powhatan, trying not to tax\neither his judgment or his desire as to what streets he traveled. He\nwould have been glad to lose his way if it were possible; but he had no\nhope of that. Adventure and Fortune move at your beck and call in the\nGreater City; but Chance is oriental. She is a veiled lady in a sedan\nchair, protected by a special traffic squad of dragonians. Crosstown,\nuptown, and downtown you may move without seeing her. At the end of an hour\u2019s stroll, Forster stood on a corner of a broad,\nsmooth avenue, looking disconsolately across it at a picturesque old\nhotel softly but brilliantly lit. Disconsolately, because he knew that\nhe must dine; and dining in that hotel was no venture. It was one of\nhis favorite caravansaries, and so silent and swift would be the\nservice and so delicately choice the food, that he regretted the hunger\nthat must be appeased by the \u201cdead perfection\u201d of the place\u2019s cuisine.\nEven the music there seemed to be always playing _da capo_. Fancy came to him that he would dine at some cheap, even dubious,\nrestaurant lower down in the city, where the erratic chefs from all\ncountries of the world spread their national cookery for the omnivorous\nAmerican. Something might happen there out of the routine\u2014he might come\nupon a subject without a predicate, a road without an end, a question\nwithout an answer, a cause without an effect, a gulf stream in life\u2019s\nsalt ocean. He had not dressed for evening; he wore a dark business\nsuit that would not be questioned even where the waiters served the\nspaghetti in their shirt sleeves.", "words": 286}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "So John Reginald Forster began to search his clothes for money; because\nthe more cheaply you dine, the more surely must you pay. All of the\nthirteen pockets, large and small, of his business suit he explored\ncarefully and found not a penny. His bank book showed a balance of five\nfigures to his credit in the Old Ironsides Trust Company, but\u2014 Forster became aware of a man nearby at his left hand who was really\nregarding him with some amusement. He looked like any business man of\nthirty or so, neatly dressed and standing in the attitude of one\nwaiting for a street car. But there was no car line on that avenue. So\nhis proximity and unconcealed curiosity seemed to Forster to partake of\nthe nature of a personal intrusion. But, as he was a consistent seeker\nafter \u201cWhat\u2019s Around the Corner,\u201d instead of manifesting resentment he\nonly turned a half-embarrassed smile upon the other\u2019s grin of\namusement. \u201cAll in?\u201d asked the intruder, drawing nearer. \u201cSeems so,\u201d said Forster. \u201cNow, I thought there was a dollar in\u2014\u201d \u201cOh, I know,\u201d said the other man, with a laugh. \u201cBut there wasn\u2019t. I\u2019ve\njust been through the same process myself, as I was coming around the\ncorner. I found in an upper vest pocket\u2014I don\u2019t know how they got\nthere\u2014exactly two pennies. You know what kind of a dinner exactly two\npennies will buy!\u201d \u201cYou haven\u2019t dined, then?\u201d asked Forster.", "words": 240}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI have not. But I would like to. Now, I\u2019ll make you a proposition. You\nlook like a man who would take up one. Your clothes look neat and\nrespectable. Excuse personalities. I think mine will pass the scrutiny\nof a head waiter, also. Suppose we go over to that hotel and dine\ntogether. We will choose from the menu like millionaires\u2014or, if you\nprefer, like gentlemen in moderate circumstances dining extravagantly\nfor once. When we have finished we will match with my two pennies to\nsee which of us will stand the brunt of the house\u2019s displeasure and\nvengeance. My name is Ives. I think we have lived in the same station\nof life\u2014before our money took wings.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re on,\u201d said Forster, joyfully. Here was a venture at least within the borders of the mysterious\ncountry of Chance\u2014anyhow, it promised something better than the stale\ninfestivity of a table d\u2019h\u00f4te. The two were soon seated at a corner table in the hotel dining room.\nIves chucked one of his pennies across the table to Forster. \u201cMatch for which of us gives the order,\u201d he said. Forster lost. Ives laughed and began to name liquids and viands to the waiter with\nthe absorbed but calm deliberation of one who was to the menu born.\nForster, listening, gave his admiring approval of the order.", "words": 223}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI am a man,\u201d said Ives, during the oysters, \u201cWho has made a lifetime\nsearch after the to-be-continued-in-our-next. I am not like the\nordinary adventurer who strikes for a coveted prize. Nor yet am I like\na gambler who knows he is either to win or lose a certain set stake.\nWhat I want is to encounter an adventure to which I can predict no\nconclusion. It is the breath of existence to me to dare Fate in its\nblindest manifestations. The world has come to run so much by rote and\ngravitation that you can enter upon hardly any footpath of chance in\nwhich you do not find signboards informing you of what you may expect\nat its end. I am like the clerk in the Circumlocution Office who always\ncomplained bitterly when any one came in to ask information. \u2018He wanted\nto _know_, you know!\u2019 was the kick he made to his fellow-clerks. Well,\nI don\u2019t want to know, I don\u2019t want to reason, I don\u2019t want to guess\u2014I\nwant to bet my hand without seeing it.\u201d \u201cI understand,\u201d said Forster delightedly. \u201cI\u2019ve often wanted the way I\nfeel put into words. You\u2019ve done it. I want to take chances on what\u2019s\ncoming. Suppose we have a bottle of Moselle with the next course.\u201d", "words": 216}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAgreed,\u201d said Ives. \u201cI\u2019m glad you catch my idea. It will increase the\nanimosity of the house toward the loser. If it does not weary you, we\nwill pursue the theme. Only a few times have I met a true venturer\u2014one\nwho does not ask a schedule and map from Fate when he begins a journey.\nBut, as the world becomes more civilized and wiser, the more difficult\nit is to come upon an adventure the end of which you cannot foresee. In\nthe Elizabethan days you could assault the watch, wring knockers from\ndoors and have a jolly set-to with the blades in any convenient angle\nof a wall and \u2018get away with it.\u2019 Nowadays, if you speak\ndisrespectfully to a policeman, all that is left to the most romantic\nfancy is to conjecture in what particular police station he will land\nyou.\u201d \u201cI know\u2014I know,\u201d said Forster, nodding approval. \u201cI returned to New York to-day,\u201d continued Ives, \u201cfrom a three years\u2019\nramble around the globe. Things are not much better abroad than they\nare at home. The whole world seems to be overrun by conclusions. The\nonly thing that interests me greatly is a premise. I\u2019ve tried shooting\nbig game in Africa. I know what an express rifle will do at so many\nyards; and when an elephant or a rhinoceros falls to the bullet, I\nenjoy it about as much as I did when I was kept in after school to do a\nsum in long division on the blackboard.\u201d \u201cI know\u2014I know,\u201d said Forster. \u201cThere might be something in aeroplanes,\u201d went on Ives, reflectively.\n\u201cI\u2019ve tried ballooning; but it seems to be merely a cut-and-dried\naffair of wind and ballast.\u201d \u201cWomen,\u201d suggested Forster, with a smile.", "words": 290}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cThree months ago,\u201d said Ives. \u201cI was pottering around in one of the\nbazaars in Constantinople. I noticed a lady, veiled, of course, but\nwith a pair of especially fine eyes visible, who was examining some\namber and pearl ornaments at one of the booths. With her was an\nattendant\u2014a big Nubian, as black as coal. After a while the attendant\ndrew nearer to me by degrees and slipped a scrap of paper into my hand.\nI looked at it when I got a chance. On it was scrawled hastily in\npencil: \u2018The arched gate of the Nightingale Garden at nine to-night.\u2019\nDoes that appear to you to be an interesting premise, Mr. Forster?\u201d \u201cI made inquiries and learned that the Nightingale Garden was the\nproperty of an old Turk\u2014a grand vizier, or something of the sort. Of\ncourse I prospected for the arched gate and was there at nine. The same\nNubian attendant opened the gate promptly on time, and I went inside\nand sat on a bench by a perfumed fountain with the veiled lady. We had\nquite an extended chat. She was Myrtle Thompson, a lady journalist, who\nwas writing up the Turkish harems for a Chicago newspaper. She said she\nnoticed the New York cut of my clothes in the bazaar and wondered if I\ncouldn\u2019t work something into the metropolitan papers about it.\u201d \u201cI see,\u201d said Forster. \u201cI see.\u201d", "words": 234}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve canoed through Canada,\u201d said Ives, \u201cdown many rapids and over\nmany falls. But I didn\u2019t seem to get what I wanted out of it because I\nknew there were only two possible outcomes\u2014I would either go to the\nbottom or arrive at the sea level. I\u2019ve played all games at cards; but\nthe mathematicians have spoiled that sport by computing the\npercentages. I\u2019ve made acquaintances on trains, I\u2019ve answered\nadvertisements, I\u2019ve rung strange door-bells, I\u2019ve taken every chance\nthat presented itself; but there has always been the conventional\nending\u2014the logical conclusion to the premise.\u201d \u201cI know,\u201d repeated Forster. \u201cI\u2019ve felt it all. But I\u2019ve had few chances\nto take my chance at chances. Is there any life so devoid of\nimpossibilities as life in this city? There seems to be a myriad of\nopportunities for testing the undeterminable; but not one in a thousand\nfails to land you where you expected it to stop. I wish the subways and\nstreet cars disappointed one as seldom.\u201d \u201cThe sun has risen,\u201d said Ives, \u201con the Arabian nights. There are no\nmore caliphs. The fisherman\u2019s vase is turned to a vacuum bottle,\nwarranted to keep any genie boiling or frozen for forty-eight hours.\nLife moves by rote. Science has killed adventure. There are no more\nopportunities such as Columbus and the man who ate the first oyster\nhad. The only certain thing is that there is nothing uncertain.\u201d", "words": 236}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWell,\u201d said Forster, \u201cmy experience has been the limited one of a city\nman. I haven\u2019t seen the world as you have; but it seems that we view it\nwith the same opinion. But, I tell you I am grateful for even this\nlittle venture of ours into the borders of the haphazard. There may be\nat least one breathless moment when the bill for the dinner is\npresented. Perhaps, after all, the pilgrims who traveled without scrip\nor purse found a keener taste to life than did the knights of the Round\nTable who rode abroad with a retinue and King Arthur\u2019s certified checks\nin the lining of their helmets. And now, if you\u2019ve finished your\ncoffee, suppose we match one of your insufficient coins for the\nimpending blow of Fate. What have I up?\u201d \u201cHeads,\u201d called Ives. \u201cHeads it is,\u201d said Forster, lifting his hand. \u201cI lose. We forgot to\nagree upon a plan for the winner to escape. I suggest that when the\nwaiter comes you make a remark about telephoning to a friend. I will\nhold the fort and the dinner check long enough for you to get your hat\nand be off. I thank you for an evening out of the ordinary, Mr. Ives,\nand wish we might have others.\u201d \u201cIf my memory is not at fault,\u201d said Ives, laughing, \u201cthe nearest\npolice station is in MacDougal Street. I have enjoyed the dinner, too,\nlet me assure you.\u201d Forster crooked his finger for the waiter. Victor, with a locomotive\neffort that seemed to owe more to pneumatics than to pedestrianism,\nglided to the table and laid the card, face downward, by the loser\u2019s\ncup. Forster took it up and added the figures with deliberate care.\nIves leaned back comfortably in his chair.", "words": 297}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cExcuse me,\u201d said Forster; \u201cbut I thought you were going to ring Grimes\nabout that theatre party for Thursday night. Had you forgotten about\nit?\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d said Ives, settling himself more comfortably, \u201cI can do that\nlater on. Get me a glass of water, waiter.\u201d \u201cWant to be in at the death, do you?\u201d asked Forster. \u201cI hope you don\u2019t object,\u201d said Ives, pleadingly. \u201cNever in my life\nhave I seen a gentleman arrested in a public restaurant for swindling\nit out of a dinner.\u201d \u201cAll right,\u201d said Forster, calmly. \u201cYou are entitled to see a Christian\ndie in the arena as your _pousse-caf\u00e9_.\u201d Victor came with the glass of water and remained, with the disengaged\nair of an inexorable collector. Forster hesitated for fifteen seconds, and then took a pencil from his\npocket and scribbled his name on the dinner check. The waiter bowed and\ntook it away. \u201cThe fact is,\u201d said Forster, with a little embarrassed laugh, \u201cI doubt\nwhether I\u2019m what they call a \u2018game sport,\u2019 which means the same as a\n\u2018soldier of Fortune.\u2019 I\u2019ll have to make a confession. I\u2019ve been dining\nat this hotel two or three times a week for more than a year. I always\nsign my checks.\u201d And then, with a note of appreciation in his voice:\n\u201cIt was first-rate of you to stay to see me through with it when you\nknew I had no money, and that you might be scooped in, too.\u201d \u201cI guess I\u2019ll confess, too,\u201d said Ives, with a grin. \u201cI own the hotel.\nI don\u2019t run it, of course, but I always keep a suite on the third floor\nfor my use when I happen to stray into town.\u201d He called a waiter and said: \u201cIs Mr. Gilmore still behind the desk? All\nright. Tell him that Mr. Ives is here, and ask him to have my rooms\nmade ready and aired.\u201d", "words": 317}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAnother venture cut short by the inevitable,\u201d said Forster. \u201cIs there\na conundrum without an answer in the next number? But let\u2019s hold to our\nsubject just for a minute or two, if you will. It isn\u2019t often that I\nmeet a man who understands the flaws I pick in existence. I am engaged\nto be married a month from to-day.\u201d \u201cI reserve comment,\u201d said Ives. \u201cRight; I am going to add to the assertion. I am devotedly fond of the\nlady; but I can\u2019t decide whether to show up at the church or make a\nsneak for Alaska. It\u2019s the same idea, you know, that we were\ndiscussing\u2014it does for a fellow as far as possibilities are concerned.\nEverybody knows the routine\u2014you get a kiss flavored with Ceylon tea\nafter breakfast; you go to the office; you come back home and dress for\ndinner\u2014theatre twice a week\u2014bills\u2014moping around most evenings trying to\nmake conversation\u2014a little quarrel occasionally\u2014maybe sometimes a big\none, and a separation\u2014or else a settling down into a middle-aged\ncontentment, which is worst of all.\u201d \u201cI know,\u201d said Ives, nodding wisely. \u201cIt\u2019s the dead certainty of the thing,\u201d went on Forster, \u201cthat keeps me\nin doubt. There\u2019ll nevermore be anything around the corner.\u201d \u201cNothing after the \u2018Little Church,\u2019\u201d said Ives. \u201cI know.\u201d \u201cUnderstand,\u201d said Forster, \u201cthat I am in no doubt as to my feelings\ntoward the lady. I may say that I love her truly and deeply. But there\nis something in the current that runs through my veins that cries out\nagainst any form of the calculable. I do not know what I want; but I\nknow that I want it. I\u2019m talking like an idiot, I suppose, but I\u2019m sure\nof what I mean.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI understand you,\u201d said Ives, with a slow smile. \u201cWell, I think I will\nbe going up to my rooms now. If you would dine with me here one evening\nsoon, Mr. Forster, I\u2019d be glad.\u201d \u201cThursday?\u201d suggested Forster. \u201cAt seven, if it\u2019s convenient,\u201d answered Ives. \u201cSeven goes,\u201d assented Forster. At half-past eight Ives got into a cab and was driven to a number in\none of the correct West Seventies. His card admitted him to the\nreception room of an old-fashioned house into which the spirits of\nFortune, Chance and Adventure had never dared to enter. On the walls\nwere the Whistler etchings, the steel engravings by\nOh-what\u2019s-his-name?, the still-life paintings of the grapes and garden\ntruck with the watermelon seeds spilled on the table as natural as\nlife, and the Greuze head. It was a household. There were even brass\nandirons. On a table was an album, half-morocco, with oxidized-silver\nprotections on the corners of the lids. A clock on the mantel ticked\nloudly, with a warning click at five minutes to nine. Ives looked at it\ncuriously, remembering a time-piece in his grandmother\u2019s home that gave\nsuch a warning. And then down the stairs and into the room came Mary Marsden. She was\ntwenty-four, and I leave her to your imagination. But I must say this\nmuch\u2014youth and health and simplicity and courage and greenish-violet\neyes are beautiful, and she had all these. She gave Ives her hand with\nthe sweet cordiality of an old friendship. \u201cYou can\u2019t think what a pleasure it is,\u201d she said, \u201cto have you drop in\nonce every three years or so.\u201d For half an hour they talked. I confess that I cannot repeat the\nconversation. You will find it in books in the circulating library.\nWhen that part of it was over, Mary said: \u201cAnd did you find what you wanted while you were abroad?\u201d \u201cWhat I wanted?\u201d said Ives.", "words": 319}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYes. You know you were always queer. Even as a boy you wouldn\u2019t play\nmarbles or baseball or any game with rules. You wanted to dive in water\nwhere you didn\u2019t know whether it was ten inches or ten feet deep. And\nwhen you grew up you were just the same. We\u2019ve often talked about your\npeculiar ways.\u201d \u201cI suppose I am an incorrigible,\u201d said Ives. \u201cI am opposed to the\ndoctrine of predestination, to the rule of three, gravitation,\ntaxation, and everything of the kind. Life has always seemed to me\nsomething like a serial story would be if they printed above each\ninstalment a synopsis of _succeeding_ chapters.\u201d Mary laughed merrily. \u201cBob Ames told us once,\u201d she said, \u201cof a funny thing you did. It was\nwhen you and he were on a train in the South, and you got off at a town\nwhere you hadn\u2019t intended to stop just because the brakeman hung up a\nsign in the end of the car with the name of the next station on it.\u201d \u201cI remember,\u201d said Ives. \u201cThat \u2018next station\u2019 has been the thing I\u2019ve\nalways tried to get away from.\u201d \u201cI know it,\u201d said Mary. \u201cAnd you\u2019ve been very foolish. I hope you\ndidn\u2019t find what you wanted not to find, or get off at the station\nwhere there wasn\u2019t any, or whatever it was you expected wouldn\u2019t happen\nto you during the three years you\u2019ve been away.\u201d \u201cThere was something I wanted before I went away,\u201d said Ives. Mary looked in his eyes clearly, with a slight, but perfectly sweet\nsmile. \u201cThere was,\u201d she said. \u201cYou wanted me. And you could have had me, as\nyou very well know.\u201d", "words": 283}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Without replying, Ives let his gaze wander slowly about the room. There\nhad been no change in it since last he had been in it, three years\nbefore. He vividly recalled the thoughts that had been in his mind\nthen. The contents of that room were as fixed, in their way, as the\neverlasting hills. No change would ever come there except the\ninevitable ones wrought by time and decay. That silver-mounted album\nwould occupy that corner of that table, those pictures would hang on\nthe walls, those chairs be found in their same places every morn and\nnoon and night while the household hung together. The brass andirons\nwere monuments to order and stability. Here and there were relics of a\nhundred years ago which were still living mementos and would be for\nmany years to come. One going from and coming back to that house would\nnever need to forecast or doubt. He would find what he left, and leave\nwhat he found. The veiled lady, Chance, would never lift her hand to\nthe knocker on the outer door. And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet\nand unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass\nhis life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he\nwould never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her,\nand she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the\nhouse itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the\nknowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus\nhis thoughts ran. \u201cI am going to be married soon,\u201d said Mary. On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive\u2019s hotel.", "words": 296}, {"story": 43, "title": "THE VENTURERS", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOld man,\u201d said he, \u201cwe\u2019ll have to put that dinner off for a year or\nso; I\u2019m going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk\nwe had the other night, and it decided me. I\u2019m going to knock around\nthe world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both\nyou and me\u2014the terrible dread of knowing what\u2019s going to happen. I\u2019ve\ndone one thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it\u2019s best\nfor both of us. I\u2019ve written to the lady to whom I was engaged and\nexplained everything\u2014told her plainly why I was leaving\u2014that the\nmonotony of matrimony would never do for me. Don\u2019t you think I was\nright?\u201d \u201cIt is not for me to say,\u201d answered Ives. \u201cGo ahead and shoot elephants\nif you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We\u2019ve\ngot to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing,\nForster, I\u2019ve found the way. I\u2019ve found out the biggest hazard in the\nworld\u2014a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end\nin the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge\nuntil the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know\u2014not\nuntil his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voyage without a\nrudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch,\nevery day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found\nthe VENTURE. Don\u2019t bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster.\nI married her yesterday at noon.\u201d XXII", "words": 275}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The gods, lying beside their nectar on \u2019Lympus and peeping over the\nedge of the cliff, perceive a difference in cities. Although it would\nseem that to their vision towns must appear as large or small ant-hills\nwithout special characteristics, yet it is not so. Studying the habits\nof ants from so great a height should be but a mild diversion when\ncoupled with the soft drink that mythology tells us is their only\nsolace. But doubtless they have amused themselves by the comparison of\nvillages and towns; and it will be no news to them (nor, perhaps, to\nmany mortals), that in one particularity New York stands unique among\nthe cities of the world. This shall be the theme of a little story\naddressed to the man who sits smoking with his Sabbath-slippered feet\non another chair, and to the woman who snatches the paper for a moment\nwhile boiling greens or a narcotized baby leaves her free. With these I\nlove to sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of Kings. New York City is inhabited by 4,000,000 mysterious strangers; thus\nbeating Bird Centre by three millions and half a dozen nine\u2019s. They\ncame here in various ways and for many reasons\u2014Hendrik Hudson, the art\nschools, green goods, the stork, the annual dressmakers\u2019 convention,\nthe Pennsylvania Railroad, love of money, the stage, cheap excursion\nrates, brains, personal column ads., heavy walking shoes, ambition,\nfreight trains\u2014all these have had a hand in making up the population. But every man Jack when he first sets foot on the stones of Manhattan\nhas got to fight. He has got to fight at once until either he or his\nadversary wins. There is no resting between rounds, for there are no\nrounds. It is slugging from the first. It is a fight to a finish.", "words": 307}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Your opponent is the City. You must do battle with it from the time the\nferry-boat lands you on the island until either it is yours or it has\nconquered you. It is the same whether you have a million in your pocket\nor only the price of a week\u2019s lodging. The battle is to decide whether you shall become a New Yorker or turn\nthe rankest outlander and Philistine. You must be one or the other. You\ncannot remain neutral. You must be for or against\u2014lover or enemy\u2014bosom\nfriend or outcast. And, oh, the city is a general in the ring. Not only\nby blows does it seek to subdue you. It woos you to its heart with the\nsubtlety of a siren. It is a combination of Delilah, green Chartreuse,\nBeethoven, chloral and John L. in his best days. In other cities you may wander and abide as a stranger man as long as\nyou please. You may live in Chicago until your hair whitens, and be a\ncitizen and still prate of beans if Boston mothered you, and without\nrebuke. You may become a civic pillar in any other town but\nKnickerbocker\u2019s, and all the time publicly sneering at its buildings,\ncomparing them with the architecture of Colonel Telfair\u2019s residence in\nJackson, Miss., whence you hail, and you will not be set upon. But in\nNew York you must be either a New Yorker or an invader of a modern\nTroy, concealed in the wooden horse of your conceited provincialism.\nAnd this dreary preamble is only to introduce to you the unimportant\nfigures of William and Jack. They came out of the West together, where they had been friends. They\ncame to dig their fortunes out of the big city.", "words": 293}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Father Knickerbocker met them at the ferry, giving one a right-hander\non the nose and the other an upper-cut with his left, just to let them\nknow that the fight was on. William was for business; Jack was for Art. Both were young and\nambitious; so they countered and clinched. I think they were from\nNebraska or possibly Missouri or Minnesota. Anyhow, they were out for\nsuccess and scraps and scads, and they tackled the city like two\nLochinvars with brass knucks and a pull at the City Hall. Four years afterward William and Jack met at luncheon. The business man\nblew in like a March wind, hurled his silk hat at a waiter, dropped\ninto the chair that was pushed under him, seized the bill of fare, and\nhad ordered as far as cheese before the artist had time to do more than\nnod. After the nod a humorous smile came into his eyes. \u201cBilly,\u201d he said, \u201cyou\u2019re done for. The city has gobbled you up. It has\ntaken you and cut you to its pattern and stamped you with its brand.\nYou are so nearly like ten thousand men I have seen to-day that you\ncouldn\u2019t be picked out from them if it weren\u2019t for your laundry marks.\u201d", "words": 210}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cCamembert,\u201d finished William. \u201cWhat\u2019s that? Oh, you\u2019ve still got your\nhammer out for New York, have you? Well, little old\nNoisyville-on-the-Subway is good enough for me. It\u2019s giving me mine.\nAnd, say, I used to think the West was the whole round world\u2014only\nslightly flattened at the poles whenever Bryan ran. I used to yell\nmyself hoarse about the free expense, and hang my hat on the horizon,\nand say cutting things in the grocery to little soap drummers from the\nEast. But I\u2019d never seen New York, then, Jack. Me for it from the\nrathskellers up. Sixth Avenue is the West to me now. Have you heard\nthis fellow Crusoe sing? The desert isle for him, I say, but my wife\nmade me go. Give me May Irwin or E. S. Willard any time.\u201d \u201cPoor Billy,\u201d said the artist, delicately fingering a cigarette. \u201cYou\nremember, when we were on our way to the East how we talked about this\ngreat, wonderful city, and how we meant to conquer it and never let it\nget the best of us? We were going to be just the same fellows we had\nalways been, and never let it master us. It has downed you, old man.\nYou have changed from a maverick into a butterick.\u201d", "words": 213}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDon\u2019t see exactly what you are driving at,\u201d said William. \u201cI don\u2019t\nwear an alpaca coat with blue trousers and a seersucker vest on dress\noccasions, like I used to do at home. You talk about being cut to a\npattern\u2014well, ain\u2019t the pattern all right? When you\u2019re in Rome you\u2019ve\ngot to do as the Dagoes do. This town seems to me to have other alleged\nmetropolises skinned to flag stations. According to the railroad\nschedule I\u2019ve got in mind, Chicago and Saint Jo and Paris, France, are\nasterisk stops\u2014which means you wave a red flag and get on every other\nTuesday. I like this little suburb of Tarrytown-on-the-Hudson. There\u2019s\nsomething or somebody doing all the time. I\u2019m clearing $8,000 a year\nselling automatic pumps, and I\u2019m living like kings-up. Why, yesterday,\nI was introduced to John W. Gates. I took an auto ride with a wine\nagent\u2019s sister. I saw two men run over by a street car, and I seen Edna\nMay play in the evening. Talk about the West, why, the other night I\nwoke everybody up in the hotel hollering. I dreamed I was walking on a\nboard sidewalk in Oshkosh. What have you got against this town, Jack?\nThere\u2019s only one thing in it that I don\u2019t care for, and that\u2019s a\nferryboat.\u201d", "words": 219}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The artist gazed dreamily at the cartridge paper on the wall. \u201cThis\ntown,\u201d said he, \u201cis a leech. It drains the blood of the country.\nWhoever comes to it accepts a challenge to a duel. Abandoning the\nfigure of the leech, it is a juggernaut, a Moloch, a monster to which\nthe innocence, the genius, and the beauty of the land must pay tribute.\nHand to hand every newcomer must struggle with the leviathan. You\u2019ve\nlost, Billy. It shall never conquer me. I hate it as one hates sin or\npestilence or\u2014the color work in a ten-cent magazine. I despise its very\nvastness and power. It has the poorest millionaires, the littlest great\nmen, the lowest skyscrapers, the dolefulest pleasures of any town I\never saw. It has caught you, old man, but I will never run beside its\nchariot wheels. It glosses itself as the Chinaman glosses his collars.\nGive me the domestic finish. I could stand a town ruled by wealth or\none ruled by an aristocracy; but this is one controlled by its lowest\ningredients. Claiming culture, it is the crudest; asseverating its\npre-eminence, it is the basest; denying all outside values and virtue,\nit is the narrowest. Give me the pure and the open heart of the West\ncountry. I would go back there to-morrow if I could.\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t you like this _filet mignon_?\u201d said William. \u201cShucks, now,\nwhat\u2019s the use to knock the town! It\u2019s the greatest ever. I couldn\u2019t\nsell one automatic pump between Harrisburg and Tommy O\u2019Keefe\u2019s saloon,\nin Sacramento, where I sell twenty here. And have you seen Sara\nBernhardt in \u2018Andrew Mack\u2019 yet?\u201d \u201cThe town\u2019s got you, Billy,\u201d said Jack. \u201cAll right,\u201d said William. \u201cI\u2019m going to buy a cottage on Lake\nRonkonkoma next summer.\u201d", "words": 294}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At midnight Jack raised his window and sat close to it. He caught his\nbreath at what he saw, though he had seen and felt it a hundred times. Far below and around lay the city like a ragged purple dream. The\nirregular houses were like the broken exteriors of cliffs lining deep\ngulches and winding streams. Some were mountainous; some lay in long,\ndesert ca\u00f1ons. Such was the background of the wonderful, cruel,\nenchanting, bewildering, fatal, great city. But into this background\nwere cut myriads of brilliant parallelograms and circles and squares\nthrough which glowed many colored lights. And out of the violet and\npurple depths ascended like the city\u2019s soul sounds and odors and\nthrills that make up the civic body. There arose the breath of gaiety\nunrestrained, of love, of hate, of all the passions that man can know.\nThere below him lay all things, good or bad, that can be brought from\nthe four corners of the earth to instruct, please, thrill, enrich,\ndespoil, elevate, cast down, nurture or kill. Thus the flavor of it\ncame up to him and went into his blood. There was a knock on his door. A telegram had come for him. It came\nfrom the West, and these were its words: \u201cCome back and the answer will be yes. DOLLY.\u201d He kept the boy waiting ten minutes, and then wrote the reply:\n\u201cImpossible to leave here at present.\u201d Then he sat at the window again\nand let the city put its cup of mandragora to his lips again. After all it isn\u2019t a story; but I wanted to know which one of the\nheroes won the battle against the city. So I went to a very learned\nfriend and laid the case before him. What he said was: \u201cPlease don\u2019t\nbother me; I have Christmas presents to buy.\u201d So there it rests; and you will have to decide for yourself.", "words": 320}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "XXIII\n\u201cWHAT YOU WANT\u201d Night had fallen on that great and beautiful city known as\nBagdad-on-the-Subway. And with the night came the enchanted glamour\nthat belongs not to Arabia alone. In different masquerade the streets,\nbazaars and walled houses of the occidental city of romance were filled\nwith the same kind of folk that so much interested our interesting old\nfriend, the late Mr. H. A. Rashid. They wore clothes eleven hundred\nyears nearer to the latest styles than H. A. saw in old Bagdad; but\nthey were about the same people underneath. With the eye of faith, you\ncould have seen the Little Hunchback, Sinbad the Sailor, Fitbad the\nTailor, the Beautiful Persian, the one-eyed Calenders, Ali Baba and\nForty Robbers on every block, and the Barber and his Six Brothers, and\nall the old Arabian gang easily. But let us revenue to our lamb chops. Old Tom Crowley was a caliph. He had $42,000,000 in preferred stocks\nand bonds with solid gold edges. In these times, to be called a caliph\nyou must have money. The old-style caliph business as conducted by Mr.\nRashid is not safe. If you hold up a person nowadays in a bazaar or a\nTurkish bath or a side street, and inquire into his private and\npersonal affairs, the police court\u2019ll get you. Old Tom was tired of clubs, theatres, dinners, friends, music, money\nand everything. That\u2019s what makes a caliph\u2014you must get to despise\neverything that money can buy, and then go out and try to want\nsomething that you can\u2019t pay for.", "words": 261}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ll take a little trot around town all by myself,\u201d thought old Tom,\n\u201cand try if I can stir up anything new. Let\u2019s see\u2014it seems I\u2019ve read\nabout a king or a Cardiff giant or something in old times who used to\ngo about with false whiskers on, making Persian dates with folks he\nhadn\u2019t been introduced to. That don\u2019t listen like a bad idea. I\ncertainly have got a case of humdrumness and fatigue on for the ones I\ndo know. That old Cardiff used to pick up cases of trouble as he ran\nupon \u2019em and give \u2019em gold\u2014sequins, I think it was\u2014and make \u2019em marry\nor got \u2019em good Government jobs. Now, I\u2019d like something of that sort.\nMy money is as good as his was even if the magazines do ask me every\nmonth where I got it. Yes, I guess I\u2019ll do a little Cardiff business\nto-night, and see how it goes.\u201d Plainly dressed, old Tom Crowley left his Madison Avenue palace, and\nwalked westward and then south. As he stepped to the sidewalk, Fate,\nwho holds the ends of the strings in the central offices of all the\nenchanted cities pulled a thread, and a young man twenty blocks away\nlooked at a wall clock, and then put on his coat.", "words": 217}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "James Turner worked in one of those little hat-cleaning establishments\non Sixth Avenue in which a fire alarm rings when you push the door\nopen, and where they clean your hat while you wait\u2014two days. James\nstood all day at an electric machine that turned hats around faster\nthan the best brands of champagne ever could have done. Overlooking\nyour mild impertinence in feeling a curiosity about the personal\nappearance of a stranger, I will give you a modified description of\nhim. Weight, 118; complexion, hair and brain, light; height, five feet\nsix; age, about twenty-three; dressed in a $10 suit of greenish-blue\nserge; pockets containing two keys and sixty-three cents in change. But do not misconjecture because this description sounds like a General\nAlarm that James was either lost or a dead one. _Allons!_ James stood all day at his work. His feet were tender and extremely\nsusceptible to impositions being put upon or below them. All day long\nthey burned and smarted, causing him much suffering and inconvenience.\nBut he was earning twelve dollars per week, which he needed to support\nhis feet whether his feet would support him or not. James Turner had his own conception of what happiness was, just as you\nand I have ours. Your delight is to gad about the world in yachts and\nmotor-cars and to hurl ducats at wild fowl. Mine is to smoke a pipe at\nevenfall and watch a badger, a rattlesnake, and an owl go into their\ncommon prairie home one by one.", "words": 255}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "James Turner\u2019s idea of bliss was different; but it was his. He would go\ndirectly to his boarding-house when his day\u2019s work was done. After his\nsupper of small steak, Bessemer potatoes, stooed (not stewed) apples\nand infusion of chicory, he would ascend to his fifth-floor-back hall\nroom. Then he would take off his shoes and socks, place the soles of\nhis burning feet against the cold bars of his iron bed, and read Clark\nRussell\u2019s sea yarns. The delicious relief of the cool metal applied to\nhis smarting soles was his nightly joy. His favorite novels never\npalled upon him; the sea and the adventures of its navigators were his\nsole intellectual passion. No millionaire was ever happier than James\nTurner taking his ease. When James left the hat-cleaning shop he walked three blocks out of his\nway home to look over the goods of a second-hand bookstall. On the\nsidewalk stands he had more than once picked up a paper-covered volume\nof Clark Russell at half price. While he was bending with a scholarly stoop over the marked-down\nmiscellany of cast-off literature, old Tom the caliph sauntered by. His\ndiscerning eye, made keen by twenty years\u2019 experience in the\nmanufacture of laundry soap (save the wrappers!) recognized instantly\nthe poor and discerning scholar, a worthy object of his caliphanous\nmood. He descended the two shallow stone steps that led from the\nsidewalk, and addressed without hesitation the object of his designed\nmunificence. His first words were no worse than salutatory and\ntentative. James Turner looked up coldly, with \u201cSartor Resartus\u201d in one hand and\n\u201cA Mad Marriage\u201d in the other. \u201cBeat it,\u201d said he. \u201cI don\u2019t want to buy any coat hangers or town lots\nin Hankipoo, New Jersey. Run along, now, and play with your Teddy\nbear.\u201d", "words": 300}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYoung man,\u201d said the caliph, ignoring the flippancy of the hat\ncleaner, \u201cI observe that you are of a studious disposition. Learning is\none of the finest things in the world. I never had any of it worth\nmentioning, but I admire to see it in others. I come from the West,\nwhere we imagine nothing but facts. Maybe I couldn\u2019t understand the\npoetry and allusions in them books you are picking over, but I like to\nsee somebody else seem to know what they mean. I\u2019m worth about\n$40,000,000, and I\u2019m getting richer every day. I made the height of it\nmanufacturing Aunt Patty\u2019s Silver Soap. I invented the art of making\nit. I experimented for three years before I got just the right quantity\nof chloride of sodium solution and caustic potash mixture to curdle\nproperly. And after I had taken some $9,000,000 out of the soap\nbusiness I made the rest in corn and wheat futures. Now, you seem to\nhave the literary and scholarly turn of character; and I\u2019ll tell you\nwhat I\u2019ll do. I\u2019ll pay for your education at the finest college in the\nworld. I\u2019ll pay the expense of your rummaging over Europe and the art\ngalleries, and finally set you up in a good business. You needn\u2019t make\nit soap if you have any objections. I see by your clothes and frazzled\nnecktie that you are mighty poor; and you can\u2019t afford to turn down the\noffer. Well, when do you want to begin?\u201d", "words": 251}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The hat cleaner turned upon old Tom the eye of the Big City, which is\nan eye expressive of cold and justifiable suspicion, of judgment\nsuspended as high as Haman was hung, of self-preservation, of\nchallenge, curiosity, defiance, cynicism, and, strange as you may think\nit, of a childlike yearning for friendliness and fellowship that must\nbe hidden when one walks among the \u201cstranger bands.\u201d For in New Bagdad\none, in order to survive, must suspect whosoever sits, dwells, drinks,\nrides, walks or sleeps in the adjacent chair, house, booth, seat, path\nor room. \u201cSay, Mike,\u201d said James Turner, \u201cwhat\u2019s your line, anyway\u2014shoe laces?\nI\u2019m not buying anything. You better put an egg in your shoe and beat it\nbefore incidents occur to you. You can\u2019t work off any fountain pens,\ngold spectacles you found on the street, or trust company certificate\nhouse clearings on me. Say, do I look like I\u2019d climbed down one of them\nmissing fire-escapes at Helicon Hall? What\u2019s vitiating you, anyhow?\u201d \u201cSon,\u201d said the caliph, in his most Harunish tones, \u201cas I said, I\u2019m\nworth $40,000,000. I don\u2019t want to have it all put in my coffin when I\ndie. I want to do some good with it. I seen you handling over these\nhere volumes of literature, and I thought I\u2019d keep you. I\u2019ve give the\nmissionary societies $2,000,000, but what did I get out of it? Nothing\nbut a receipt from the secretary. Now, you are just the kind of young\nman I\u2019d like to take up and see what money could make of him.\u201d Volumes of Clark Russell were hard to find that evening at the Old Book\nShop. And James Turner\u2019s smarting and aching feet did not tend to\nimprove his temper. Humble hat cleaner though he was, he had a spirit\nequal to any caliph\u2019s.", "words": 305}, {"story": 44, "title": "THE DUEL", "volume": "Strictly Business: More Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSay, you old faker,\u201d he said, angrily, \u201cbe on your way. I don\u2019t know\nwhat your game is, unless you want change for a bogus $40,000,000 bill.\nWell, I don\u2019t carry that much around with me. But I do carry a pretty\nfair left-handed punch that you\u2019ll get if you don\u2019t move on.\u201d \u201cYou are a blamed impudent little gutter pup,\u201d said the caliph. Then James delivered his self-praised punch; old Tom seized him by the\ncollar and kicked him thrice; the hat cleaner rallied and clinched; two\nbookstands were overturned, and the books sent flying. A cop came up,\ntook an arm of each, and marched them to the nearest station house.\n\u201cFighting and disorderly conduct,\u201d said the cop to the sergeant. \u201cThree hundred dollars bail,\u201d said the sergeant at once, asseveratingly\nand inquiringly. \u201cSixty-three cents,\u201d said James Turner with a harsh laugh. The caliph searched his pockets and collected small bills and change\namounting to four dollars. \u201cI am worth,\u201d he said, \u201cforty million dollars, but\u2014\u201d \u201cLock \u2019em up,\u201d ordered the sergeant. In his cell, James Turner laid himself on his cot, ruminating. \u201cMaybe\nhe\u2019s got the money, and maybe he ain\u2019t. But if he has or he ain\u2019t, what\ndoes he want to go \u2019round butting into other folks\u2019s business for? When\na man knows what he wants, and can get it, it\u2019s the same as $40,000,000\nto him.\u201d Then an idea came to him that brought a pleased look to his face. He removed his socks, drew his cot close to the door, stretched himself\nout luxuriously, and placed his tortured feet against the cold bars of\nthe cell door. Something hard and bulky under the blankets of his cot\ngave one shoulder discomfort. He reached under, and drew out a\npaper-covered volume by Clark Russell called \u201cA Sailor\u2019s Sweetheart.\u201d\nHe gave a great sigh of contentment. Presently, to his cell came the doorman and said:", "words": 320}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Tobin and me, the two of us, went down to Coney one day, for there was\nfour dollars between us, and Tobin had need of distractions. For there\nwas Katie Mahorner, his sweetheart, of County Sligo, lost since she\nstarted for America three months before with two hundred dollars, her\nown savings, and one hundred dollars from the sale of Tobin\u2019s inherited\nestate, a fine cottage and pig on the Bog Shannaugh. And since the\nletter that Tobin got saying that she had started to come to him not a\nbit of news had he heard or seen of Katie Mahorner. Tobin advertised in\nthe papers, but nothing could be found of the colleen. So, to Coney me and Tobin went, thinking that a turn at the chutes and\nthe smell of the popcorn might raise the heart in his bosom. But Tobin\nwas a hardheaded man, and the sadness stuck in his skin. He ground his\nteeth at the crying balloons; he cursed the moving pictures; and,\nthough he would drink whenever asked, he scorned Punch and Judy, and\nwas for licking the tintype men as they came. So I gets him down a side way on a board walk where the attractions\nwere some less violent. At a little six by eight stall Tobin halts,\nwith a more human look in his eye. \u201c\u2019Tis here,\u201d says he, \u201cI will be diverted. I\u2019ll have the palm of me\nhand investigated by the wonderful palmist of the Nile, and see if what\nis to be will be.\u201d Tobin was a believer in signs and the unnatural in nature. He possessed\nillegal convictions in his mind along the subjects of black cats, lucky\nnumbers, and the weather predictions in the papers.", "words": 290}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "We went into the enchanted chicken coop, which was fixed mysterious\nwith red cloth and pictures of hands with lines crossing \u2019em like a\nrailroad centre. The sign over the door says it is Madame Zozo the\nEgyptian Palmist. There was a fat woman inside in a red jumper with\npothooks and beasties embroidered upon it. Tobin gives her ten cents\nand extends one of his hands. She lifts Tobin\u2019s hand, which is own\nbrother to the hoof of a drayhorse, and examines it to see whether \u2019tis\na stone in the frog or a cast shoe he has come for. \u201cMan,\u201d says this Madame Zozo, \u201cthe line of your fate shows\u2014\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis not me foot at all,\u201d says Tobin, interrupting. \u201cSure, \u2019tis no\nbeauty, but ye hold the palm of me hand.\u201d \u201cThe line shows,\u201d says the Madame, \u201cthat ye\u2019ve not arrived at your time\nof life without bad luck. And there\u2019s more to come. The mount of\nVenus\u2014or is that a stone bruise?\u2014shows that ye\u2019ve been in love. There\u2019s\nbeen trouble in your life on account of your sweetheart.\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis Katie Mahorner she has references with,\u201d whispers Tobin to me in\na loud voice to one side. \u201cI see,\u201d says the palmist, \u201ca great deal of sorrow and tribulation with\none whom ye cannot forget. I see the lines of designation point to the\nletter K and the letter M in her name.\u201d \u201cWhist!\u201d says Tobin to me, \u201cdo ye hear that?\u201d \u201cLook out,\u201d goes on the palmist, \u201cfor a dark man and a light woman; for\nthey\u2019ll both bring ye trouble. Ye\u2019ll make a voyage upon the water very\nsoon, and have a financial loss. I see one line that brings good luck.\nThere\u2019s a man coming into your life who will fetch ye good fortune.\nYe\u2019ll know him when ye see him by his crooked nose.\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cIs his name set down?\u201d asks Tobin. \u201c\u2019Twill be convenient in the way of\ngreeting when he backs up to dump off the good luck.\u201d \u201cHis name,\u201d says the palmist, thoughtful looking, \u201cis not spelled out\nby the lines, but they indicate \u2019tis a long one, and the letter \u2018o\u2019\nshould be in it. There\u2019s no more to tell. Good-evening. Don\u2019t block up\nthe door.\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis wonderful how she knows,\u201d says Tobin as we walk to the pier. As we squeezed through the gates a nigger man sticks his lighted segar\nagainst Tobin\u2019s ear, and there is trouble. Tobin hammers his neck, and\nthe women squeal, and by presence of mind I drag the little man out of\nthe way before the police comes. Tobin is always in an ugly mood when\nenjoying himself. On the boat going back, when the man calls \u201cWho wants the good-looking\nwaiter?\u201d Tobin tried to plead guilty, feeling the desire to blow the\nfoam off a crock of suds, but when he felt in his pocket he found\nhimself discharged for lack of evidence. Somebody had disturbed his\nchange during the commotion. So we sat, dry, upon the stools, listening\nto the Dagoes fiddling on deck. If anything, Tobin was lower in spirits\nand less congenial with his misfortunes than when we started. On a seat against the railing was a young woman dressed suitable for\nred automobiles, with hair the colour of an unsmoked meerschaum. In\npassing by, Tobin kicks her foot without intentions, and, being polite\nto ladies when in drink, he tries to give his hat a twist while\napologising. But he knocks it off, and the wind carries it overboard.", "words": 280}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Tobin came back and sat down, and I began to look out for him, for the\nman\u2019s adversities were becoming frequent. He was apt, when pushed so\nclose by hard luck, to kick the best dressed man he could see, and try\nto take command of the boat. Presently Tobin grabs my arm and says, excited: \u201cJawn,\u201d says he, \u201cdo ye\nknow what we\u2019re doing? We\u2019re taking a voyage upon the water.\u201d \u201cThere now,\u201d says I; \u201csubdue yeself. The boat\u2019ll land in ten minutes\nmore.\u201d \u201cLook,\u201d says he, \u201cat the light lady upon the bench. And have ye\nforgotten the nigger man that burned me ear? And isn\u2019t the money I had\ngone\u2014a dollar sixty-five it was?\u201d I thought he was no more than summing up his catastrophes so as to get\nviolent with good excuse, as men will do, and I tried to make him\nunderstand such things was trifles. \u201cListen,\u201d says Tobin. \u201cYe\u2019ve no ear for the gift of prophecy or the\nmiracles of the inspired. What did the palmist lady tell ye out of me\nhand? \u2019Tis coming true before your eyes. \u2018Look out,\u2019 says she, \u2018for a\ndark man and a light woman; they\u2019ll bring ye trouble.\u2019 Have ye forgot\nthe nigger man, though he got some of it back from me fist? Can ye show\nme a lighter woman than the blonde lady that was the cause of me hat\nfalling in the water? And where\u2019s the dollar sixty-five I had in me\nvest when we left the shooting gallery?\u201d The way Tobin put it, it did seem to corroborate the art of prediction,\nthough it looked to me that these accidents could happen to any one at\nConey without the implication of palmistry.", "words": 289}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Tobin got up and walked around on deck, looking close at the passengers\nout of his little red eyes. I asked him the interpretation of his\nmovements. Ye never know what Tobin has in his mind until he begins to\ncarry it out. \u201cYe should know,\u201d says he, \u201cI\u2019m working out the salvation promised by\nthe lines in me palm. I\u2019m looking for the crooked-nose man that\u2019s to\nbring the good luck. \u2019Tis all that will save us. Jawn, did ye ever see\na straighter-nosed gang of hellions in the days of your life?\u201d \u2019Twas the nine-thirty boat, and we landed and walked up-town through\nTwenty-second Street, Tobin being without his hat. On a street corner, standing under a gas-light and looking over the\nelevated road at the moon, was a man. A long man he was, dressed\ndecent, with a segar between his teeth, and I saw that his nose made\ntwo twists from bridge to end, like the wriggle of a snake. Tobin saw\nit at the same time, and I heard him breathe hard like a horse when you\ntake the saddle off. He went straight up to the man, and I went with\nhim. \u201cGood-night to ye,\u201d Tobin says to the man. The man takes out his segar\nand passes the compliments, sociable. \u201cWould ye hand us your name,\u201d asks Tobin, \u201cand let us look at the size\nof it? It may be our duty to become acquainted with ye.\u201d \u201cMy name\u201d says the man, polite, \u201cis Friedenhausman\u2014Maximus G.\nFriedenhausman.\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis the right length,\u201d says Tobin. \u201cDo you spell it with an \u2018o\u2019\nanywhere down the stretch of it?\u201d \u201cI do not,\u201d says the man. \u201c_Can_ ye spell it with an \u2018o\u2019?\u201d inquires Tobin, turning anxious. \u201cIf your conscience,\u201d says the man with the nose, \u201cis indisposed toward\nforeign idioms ye might, to please yourself, smuggle the letter into\nthe penultimate syllable.\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2019Tis well,\u201d says Tobin. \u201cYe\u2019re in the presence of Jawn Malone and\nDaniel Tobin.\u201d \u201cTis highly appreciated,\u201d says the man, with a bow. \u201cAnd now since I\ncannot conceive that ye would hold a spelling bee upon the street\ncorner, will ye name some reasonable excuse for being at large?\u201d \u201cBy the two signs,\u201d answers Tobin, trying to explain, \u201cwhich ye display\naccording to the reading of the Egyptian palmist from the sole of me\nhand, ye\u2019ve been nominated to offset with good luck the lines of\ntrouble leading to the nigger man and the blonde lady with her feet\ncrossed in the boat, besides the financial loss of a dollar sixty-five,\nall so far fulfilled according to Hoyle.\u201d The man stopped smoking and looked at me. \u201cHave ye any amendments,\u201d he asks, \u201cto offer to that statement, or are\nye one too? I thought by the looks of ye ye might have him in charge.\u201d \u201cNone,\u201d says I to him, \u201cexcept that as one horseshoe resembles another\nso are ye the picture of good luck as predicted by the hand of me\nfriend. If not, then the lines of Danny\u2019s hand may have been crossed, I\ndon\u2019t know.\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s two of ye,\u201d says the man with the nose, looking up and down\nfor the sight of a policeman. \u201cI\u2019ve enjoyed your company immense.\nGood-night.\u201d With that he shoves his segar in his mouth and moves across the street,\nstepping fast. But Tobin sticks close to one side of him and me at the\nother. \u201cWhat!\u201d says he, stopping on the opposite sidewalk and pushing back his\nhat; \u201cdo ye follow me? I tell ye,\u201d he says, very loud, \u201cI\u2019m proud to\nhave met ye. But it is my desire to be rid of ye. I am off to me home.\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cDo,\u201d says Tobin, leaning against his sleeve. \u201cDo be off to your home.\nAnd I will sit at the door of it till ye come out in the morning. For\nthe dependence is upon ye to obviate the curse of the nigger man and\nthe blonde lady and the financial loss of the one-sixty-five.\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis a strange hallucination,\u201d says the man, turning to me as a more\nreasonable lunatic. \u201cHadn\u2019t ye better get him home?\u201d", "words": 75}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cListen, man,\u201d says I to him. \u201cDaniel Tobin is as sensible as he ever\nwas. Maybe he is a bit deranged on account of having drink enough to\ndisturb but not enough to settle his wits, but he is no more than\nfollowing out the legitimate path of his superstitions and\npredicaments, which I will explain to you.\u201d With that I relates the\nfacts about the palmist lady and how the finger of suspicion points to\nhim as an instrument of good fortune. \u201cNow, understand,\u201d I concludes,\n\u201cmy position in this riot. I am the friend of me friend Tobin,\naccording to me interpretations. \u2019Tis easy to be a friend to the\nprosperous, for it pays; \u2019tis not hard to be a friend to the poor, for\nye get puffed up by gratitude and have your picture printed standing in\nfront of a tenement with a scuttle of coal and an orphan in each hand.\nBut it strains the art of friendship to be true friend to a born fool.\nAnd that\u2019s what I\u2019m doing,\u201d says I, \u201cfor, in my opinion, there\u2019s no\nfortune to be read from the palm of me hand that wasn\u2019t printed there\nwith the handle of a pick. And, though ye\u2019ve got the crookedest nose in\nNew York City, I misdoubt that all the fortune-tellers doing business\ncould milk good luck from ye. But the lines of Danny\u2019s hand pointed to\nye fair, and I\u2019ll assist him to experiment with ye until he\u2019s convinced\nye\u2019re dry.\u201d After that the man turns, sudden, to laughing. He leans against a\ncorner and laughs considerable. Then he claps me and Tobin on the backs\nof us and takes us by an arm apiece.", "words": 285}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2019Tis my mistake,\u201d says he. \u201cHow could I be expecting anything so fine\nand wonderful to be turning the corner upon me? I came near being found\nunworthy. Hard by,\u201d says he, \u201cis a caf\u00e9, snug and suitable for the\nentertainment of idiosyncrasies. Let us go there and have drink while\nwe discuss the unavailability of the categorical.\u201d So saying, he marched me and Tobin to the back room of a saloon, and\nordered the drinks, and laid the money on the table. He looks at me and\nTobin like brothers of his, and we have the segars. \u201cYe must know,\u201d says the man of destiny, \u201cthat me walk in life is one\nthat is called the literary. I wander abroad be night seeking\nidiosyncrasies in the masses and truth in the heavens above. When ye\ncame upon me I was in contemplation of the elevated road in conjunction\nwith the chief luminary of night. The rapid transit is poetry and art:\nthe moon but a tedious, dry body, moving by rote. But these are private\nopinions, for, in the business of literature, the conditions are\nreversed. \u2019Tis me hope to be writing a book to explain the strange\nthings I have discovered in life.\u201d \u201cYe will put me in a book,\u201d says Tobin, disgusted; \u201cwill ye put me in a\nbook?\u201d \u201cI will not,\u201d says the man, \u201cfor the covers will not hold ye. Not yet.\nThe best I can do is to enjoy ye meself, for the time is not ripe for\ndestroying the limitations of print. Ye would look fantastic in type.\nAll alone by meself must I drink this cup of joy. But, I thank ye,\nboys; I am truly grateful.\u201d", "words": 285}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cThe talk of ye,\u201d says Tobin, blowing through his moustache and\npounding the table with his fist, \u201cis an eyesore to me patience. There\nwas good luck promised out of the crook of your nose, but ye bear fruit\nlike the bang of a drum. Ye resemble, with your noise of books, the\nwind blowing through a crack. Sure, now, I would be thinking the palm\nof me hand lied but for the coming true of the nigger man and the\nblonde lady and\u2014\u201d \u201cWhist!\u201d says the long man; \u201cwould ye be led astray by physiognomy? Me\nnose will do what it can within bounds. Let us have these glasses\nfilled again, for \u2019tis good to keep idiosyncrasies well moistened, they\nbeing subject to deterioration in a dry moral atmosphere.\u201d So, the man of literature makes good, to my notion, for he pays,\ncheerful, for everything, the capital of me and Tobin being exhausted\nby prediction. But Tobin is sore, and drinks quiet, with the red\nshowing in his eye. By and by we moved out, for \u2019twas eleven o\u2019clock, and stands a bit upon\nthe sidewalk. And then the man says he must be going home, and invites\nme and Tobin to walk that way. We arrives on a side street two blocks\naway where there is a stretch of brick houses with high stoops and iron\nfences. The man stops at one of them and looks up at the top windows\nwhich he finds dark.", "words": 247}, {"story": 45, "title": "TOBIN\u2019S PALM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2019Tis me humble dwelling,\u201d says he, \u201cand I begin to perceive by the\nsigns that me wife has retired to slumber. Therefore I will venture a\nbit in the way of hospitality. \u2019Tis me wish that ye enter the basement\nroom, where we dine, and partake of a reasonable refreshment. There\nwill be some fine cold fowl and cheese and a bottle or two of ale. Ye\nwill be welcome to enter and eat, for I am indebted to ye for\ndiversions.\u201d The appetite and conscience of me and Tobin was congenial to the\nproposition, though \u2019twas sticking hard in Danny\u2019s superstitions to\nthink that a few drinks and a cold lunch should represent the good\nfortune promised by the palm of his hand. \u201cStep down the steps,\u201d says the man with the crooked nose, \u201cand I will\nenter by the door above and let ye in. I will ask the new girl we have\nin the kitchen,\u201d says he, \u201cto make ye a pot of coffee to drink before\nye go. \u2019Tis fine coffee Katie Mahorner makes for a green girl just\nlanded three months. Step in,\u201d says the man, \u201cand I\u2019ll send her down to\nye.\u201d", "words": 198}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it\nwas in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the\ngrocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one\u2019s cheeks burned\nwith the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing\nimplied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven\ncents. And the next day would be Christmas. There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little\ncouch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection\nthat life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles\npredominating. While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first\nstage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8\nper week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had\nthat word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad. In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go,\nand an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring.\nAlso appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name \u201cMr. James\nDillingham Young.\u201d The \u201cDillingham\u201d had been flung to the breeze during\na former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per\nweek. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, the letters of\n\u201cDillingham\u201d looked blurred, as though they were thinking seriously of\ncontracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James\nDillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called\n\u201cJim\u201d and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.", "words": 279}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag.\nShe stood by the window and looked out dully at a grey cat walking a\ngrey fence in a grey backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she\nhad only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving\nevery penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a\nweek doesn\u2019t go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated.\nThey always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a\nhappy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something\nfine and rare and sterling\u2014something just a little bit near to being\nworthy of the honour of being owned by Jim. There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you\nhave seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person\nmay, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal\nstrips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being\nslender, had mastered the art. Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her\neyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its colour within\ntwenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its\nfull length.", "words": 221}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which\nthey both took a mighty pride. One was Jim\u2019s gold watch that had been\nhis father\u2019s and his grandfather\u2019s. The other was Della\u2019s hair. Had the\nQueen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have\nlet her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her\nMajesty\u2019s jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all\nhis treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his\nwatch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from\nenvy. So now Della\u2019s beautiful hair fell about her, rippling and shining like\na cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself\nalmost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and\nquickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or\ntwo splashed on the worn red carpet. On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl\nof skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she\nfluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street. Where she stopped the sign read: \u201cMme. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All\nKinds.\u201d One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting.\nMadame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the \u201cSofronie.\u201d \u201cWill you buy my hair?\u201d asked Della. \u201cI buy hair,\u201d said Madame. \u201cTake yer hat off and let\u2019s have a sight at\nthe looks of it.\u201d Down rippled the brown cascade. \u201cTwenty dollars,\u201d said Madame, lifting\nthe mass with a practised hand. \u201cGive it to me quick,\u201d said Della. Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed\nmetaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim\u2019s present.", "words": 307}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else.\nThere was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all\nof them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in\ndesign, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by\nmeretricious ornamentation\u2014as all good things should do. It was even\nworthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be\nJim\u2019s. It was like him. Quietness and value\u2014the description applied to\nboth. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried\nhome with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be\nproperly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was,\nhe sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather\nstrap that he used in place of a chain. When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence\nand reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went\nto work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which\nis always a tremendous task, dear friends\u2014a mammoth task. Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls\nthat made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at\nher reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically. \u201cIf Jim doesn\u2019t kill me,\u201d she said to herself, \u201cbefore he takes a\nsecond look at me, he\u2019ll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl.\nBut what could I do\u2014oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven\ncents?\u201d At 7 o\u2019clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of\nthe stove hot and ready to cook the chops.", "words": 301}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on\nthe corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she\nheard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she\nturned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little\nsilent prayers about the simplest everyday things, and now she\nwhispered: \u201cPlease God, make him think I am still pretty.\u201d The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and\nvery serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two\u2014and to be burdened\nwith a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves. Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of\nquail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in\nthem that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger,\nnor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments\nthat she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with\nthat peculiar expression on his face. Della wriggled off the table and went for him. \u201cJim, darling,\u201d she cried, \u201cdon\u2019t look at me that way. I had my hair\ncut off and sold because I couldn\u2019t have lived through Christmas\nwithout giving you a present. It\u2019ll grow out again\u2014you won\u2019t mind, will\nyou? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say \u2018Merry\nChristmas!\u2019 Jim, and let\u2019s be happy. You don\u2019t know what a nice\u2014what a\nbeautiful, nice gift I\u2019ve got for you.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ve cut off your hair?\u201d asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not\narrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor. \u201cCut it off and sold it,\u201d said Della. \u201cDon\u2019t you like me just as well,\nanyhow? I\u2019m me without my hair, ain\u2019t I?\u201d Jim looked about the room curiously.", "words": 319}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou say your hair is gone?\u201d he said, with an air almost of idiocy. \u201cYou needn\u2019t look for it,\u201d said Della. \u201cIt\u2019s sold, I tell you\u2014sold and\ngone, too. It\u2019s Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you.\nMaybe the hairs of my head were numbered,\u201d she went on with sudden\nserious sweetness, \u201cbut nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall\nI put the chops on, Jim?\u201d Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della.\nFor ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some\ninconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or\na million a year\u2014what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would\ngive you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that\nwas not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on. Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the\ntable. \u201cDon\u2019t make any mistake, Dell,\u201d he said, \u201cabout me. I don\u2019t think\nthere\u2019s anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that\ncould make me like my girl any less. But if you\u2019ll unwrap that package\nyou may see why you had me going a while at first.\u201d White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an\necstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to\nhysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of\nall the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.", "words": 255}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "For there lay The Combs\u2014the set of combs, side and back, that Della had\nworshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise\nshell, with jewelled rims\u2014just the shade to wear in the beautiful\nvanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had\nsimply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of\npossession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have\nadorned the coveted adornments were gone. But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up\nwith dim eyes and a smile and say: \u201cMy hair grows so fast, Jim!\u201d And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, \u201cOh, oh!\u201d Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him\neagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash\nwith a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit. \u201cIsn\u2019t it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You\u2019ll have\nto look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I\nwant to see how it looks on it.\u201d Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands\nunder the back of his head and smiled. \u201cDell,\u201d said he, \u201clet\u2019s put our Christmas presents away and keep \u2019em a\nwhile. They\u2019re too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get\nthe money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on.\u201d", "words": 257}, {"story": 46, "title": "THE GIFT OF THE MAGI", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The magi, as you know, were wise men\u2014wonderfully wise men\u2014who brought\ngifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving\nChristmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones,\npossibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And\nhere I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two\nfoolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other\nthe greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise\nof these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were\nthe wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest.\nEverywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.", "words": 122}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At midnight the caf\u00e9 was crowded. By some chance the little table at\nwhich I sat had escaped the eye of incomers, and two vacant chairs at\nit 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\ntheory that since Adam no true citizen of the world has existed. We\nhear of them, and we see foreign labels on much luggage, but we find\ntravellers instead of cosmopolites. I invoke your consideration of the scene\u2014the marble-topped tables, the\nrange of leather-upholstered wall seats, the gay company, the ladies\ndressed in demi-state toilets, speaking in an exquisite visible chorus\nof taste, economy, opulence or art; the sedulous and largess-loving\n_gar\u00e7ons_, the music wisely catering to all with its raids upon the\ncomposers; the _m\u00e9lange_ of talk and laughter\u2014and, if you will, the\nW\u00fcrzburger in the tall glass cones that bend to your lips as a ripe\ncherry sways on its branch to the beak of a robber jay. I was told by a\nsculptor from Mauch Chunk that the scene was truly Parisian.", "words": 191}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "My cosmopolite was named E. Rushmore Coglan, and he will be heard from\nnext summer at Coney Island. He is to establish a new \u201cattraction\u201d\nthere, he informed me, offering kingly diversion. And then his\nconversation rang along parallels of latitude and longitude. He took\nthe great, round world in his hand, so to speak, familiarly,\ncontemptuously, and it seemed no larger than the seed of a Maraschino\ncherry in a _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ grape fruit. He spoke disrespectfully of the\nequator, he skipped from continent to continent, he derided the zones,\nhe mopped up the high seas with his napkin. With a wave of his hand he\nwould speak of a certain bazaar in Hyderabad. Whiff! He would have you\non skis in Lapland. Zip! Now you rode the breakers with the Kanakas at\nKealaikahiki. Presto! He dragged you through an Arkansas post-oak\nswamp, let you dry for a moment on the alkali plains of his Idaho\nranch, then whirled you into the society of Viennese archdukes. Anon he\nwould be telling you of a cold he acquired in a Chicago lake breeze and\nhow old Escamila cured it in Buenos Ayres with a hot infusion of the\n_chuchula_ weed. You would have addressed a letter to \u201cE. Rushmore\nCoglan, Esq., the Earth, Solar System, the Universe,\u201d and have mailed\nit, feeling confident that it would be delivered to him. I was sure that I had found at last the one true cosmopolite since\nAdam, and I listened to his worldwide discourse fearful lest I should\ndiscover in it the local note of the mere globe-trotter. But his\nopinions never fluttered or drooped; he was as impartial to cities,\ncountries and continents as the winds or gravitation.", "words": 287}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "And as E. Rushmore Coglan prattled of this little planet I thought with\nglee of a great almost-cosmopolite who wrote for the whole world and\ndedicated himself to Bombay. In a poem he has to say that there is\npride and rivalry between the cities of the earth, and that \u201cthe men\nthat breed from them, they traffic up and down, but cling to their\ncities\u2019 hem as a child to the mother\u2019s gown.\u201d And whenever they walk\n\u201cby roaring streets unknown\u201d they remember their native city \u201cmost\nfaithful, foolish, fond; making her mere-breathed name their bond upon\ntheir bond.\u201d And my glee was roused because I had caught Mr. Kipling\nnapping. Here I had found a man not made from dust; one who had no\nnarrow boasts of birthplace or country, one who, if he bragged at all,\nwould brag of his whole round globe against the Martians and the\ninhabitants of the Moon. Expression on these subjects was precipitated from E. Rushmore Coglan\nby the third corner to our table. While Coglan was describing to me the\ntopography along the Siberian Railway the orchestra glided into a\nmedley. The concluding air was \u201cDixie,\u201d and as the exhilarating notes\ntumbled forth they were almost overpowered by a great clapping of hands\nfrom almost every table.", "words": 216}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "It is worth a paragraph to say that this remarkable scene can be\nwitnessed every evening in numerous caf\u00e9s in the City of New York. Tons\nof brew have been consumed over theories to account for it. Some have\nconjectured hastily that all Southerners in town hie themselves to\ncaf\u00e9s at nightfall. This applause of the \u201crebel\u201d air in a Northern city\ndoes puzzle a little; but it is not insolvable. The war with Spain,\nmany years\u2019 generous mint and watermelon crops, a few long-shot winners\nat the New Orleans race-track, and the brilliant banquets given by the\nIndiana and Kansas citizens who compose the North Carolina Society have\nmade the South rather a \u201cfad\u201d in Manhattan. Your manicure will lisp\nsoftly that your left forefinger reminds her so much of a gentleman\u2019s\nin Richmond, Va. Oh, certainly; but many a lady has to work now\u2014the\nwar, you know. When \u201cDixie\u201d was being played a dark-haired young man sprang up from\nsomewhere with a Mosby guerrilla yell and waved frantically his\nsoft-brimmed hat. Then he strayed through the smoke, dropped into the\nvacant chair at our table and pulled out cigarettes. The evening was at the period when reserve is thawed. One of us\nmentioned three W\u00fcrzburgers to the waiter; the dark-haired young man\nacknowledged his inclusion in the order by a smile and a nod. I\nhastened to ask him a question because I wanted to try out a theory I\nhad. \u201cWould you mind telling me,\u201d I began, \u201cwhether you are from\u2014\u201d The fist of E. Rushmore Coglan banged the table and I was jarred into\nsilence.", "words": 269}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cExcuse me,\u201d said he, \u201cbut that\u2019s a question I never like to hear\nasked. What does it matter where a man is from? Is it fair to judge a\nman by his post-office address? Why, I\u2019ve seen Kentuckians who hated\nwhiskey, Virginians who weren\u2019t descended from Pocahontas, Indianians\nwho hadn\u2019t written a novel, Mexicans who didn\u2019t wear velvet trousers\nwith silver dollars sewed along the seams, funny Englishmen,\nspendthrift Yankees, cold-blooded Southerners, narrow-minded\nWesterners, and New Yorkers who were too busy to stop for an hour on\nthe street to watch a one-armed grocer\u2019s clerk do up cranberries in\npaper bags. Let a man be a man and don\u2019t handicap him with the label of\nany section.\u201d \u201cPardon me,\u201d I said, \u201cbut my curiosity was not altogether an idle one.\nI know the South, and when the band plays \u2018Dixie\u2019 I like to observe. I\nhave formed the belief that the man who applauds that air with special\nviolence and ostensible sectional loyalty is invariably a native of\neither Secaucus, N.J., or the district between Murray Hill Lyceum and\nthe Harlem River, this city. I was about to put my opinion to the test\nby inquiring of this gentleman when you interrupted with your\nown\u2014larger theory, I must confess.\u201d And now the dark-haired young man spoke to me, and it became evident\nthat his mind also moved along its own set of grooves. \u201cI should like to be a periwinkle,\u201d said he, mysteriously, \u201con the top\nof a valley, and sing tooralloo-ralloo.\u201d This was clearly too obscure, so I turned again to Coglan.", "words": 263}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve been around the world twelve times,\u201d said he. \u201cI know an Esquimau\nin Upernavik who sends to Cincinnati for his neckties, and I saw a\ngoat-herder in Uruguay who won a prize in a Battle Creek breakfast food\npuzzle competition. I pay rent on a room in Cairo, Egypt, and another\nin Yokohama all the year around. I\u2019ve got slippers waiting for me in a\ntea-house in Shanghai, and I don\u2019t have to tell \u2019em how to cook my eggs\nin Rio de Janeiro or Seattle. It\u2019s a mighty little old world. What\u2019s\nthe use of bragging about being from the North, or the South, or the\nold manor house in the dale, or Euclid avenue, Cleveland, or Pike\u2019s\nPeak, or Fairfax County, Va., or Hooligan\u2019s Flats or any place? It\u2019ll\nbe a better world when we quit being fools about some mildewed town or\nten acres of swampland just because we happened to be born there.\u201d \u201cYou seem to be a genuine cosmopolite,\u201d I said admiringly. \u201cBut it also\nseems that you would decry patriotism.\u201d \u201cA relic of the stone age,\u201d declared Coglan, warmly. \u201cWe are all\nbrothers\u2014Chinamen, Englishmen, Zulus, Patagonians and the people in the\nbend of the Kaw River. Some day all this petty pride in one\u2019s city or\nState or section or country will be wiped out, and we\u2019ll all be\ncitizens of the world, as we ought to be.\u201d \u201cBut while you are wandering in foreign lands,\u201d I persisted, \u201cdo not\nyour thoughts revert to some spot\u2014some dear and\u2014\u201d", "words": 255}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cNary a spot,\u201d interrupted E. R. Coglan, flippantly. \u201cThe terrestrial,\nglobular, planetary hunk of matter, slightly flattened at the poles,\nand known as the Earth, is my abode. I\u2019ve met a good many object-bound\ncitizens of this country abroad. I\u2019ve seen men from Chicago sit in a\ngondola in Venice on a moonlight night and brag about their drainage\ncanal. I\u2019ve seen a Southerner on being introduced to the King of\nEngland hand that monarch, without batting his eyes, the information\nthat his grand-aunt on his mother\u2019s side was related by marriage to the\nPerkinses, of Charleston. I knew a New Yorker who was kidnapped for\nransom by some Afghanistan bandits. His people sent over the money and\nhe came back to Kabul with the agent. \u2018Afghanistan?\u2019 the natives said\nto him through an interpreter. \u2018Well, not so slow, do you think?\u2019 \u2018Oh,\nI don\u2019t know,\u2019 says he, and he begins to tell them about a cab driver\nat Sixth avenue and Broadway. Those ideas don\u2019t suit me. I\u2019m not tied\ndown to anything that isn\u2019t 8,000 miles in diameter. Just put me down\nas E. Rushmore Coglan, citizen of the terrestrial sphere.\u201d My cosmopolite made a large adieu and left me, for he thought he saw\nsome one through the chatter and smoke whom he knew. So I was left with\nthe would-be periwinkle, who was reduced to W\u00fcrzburger without further\nability to voice his aspirations to perch, melodious, upon the summit\nof a valley. I sat reflecting upon my evident cosmopolite and wondering how the poet\nhad managed to miss him. He was my discovery and I believed in him. How\nwas it? \u201cThe men that breed from them they traffic up and down, but\ncling to their cities\u2019 hem as a child to the mother\u2019s gown.\u201d Not so E. Rushmore Coglan. With the whole world for his\u2014", "words": 310}, {"story": 47, "title": "A COSMOPOLITE IN A CAF\u00c9", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "My meditations were interrupted by a tremendous noise and conflict in\nanother part of the caf\u00e9. I saw above the heads of the seated patrons\nE. Rushmore Coglan and a stranger to me engaged in terrific battle.\nThey fought between the tables like Titans, and glasses crashed, and\nmen caught their hats up and were knocked down, and a brunette\nscreamed, and a blonde began to sing \u201cTeasing.\u201d My cosmopolite was sustaining the pride and reputation of the Earth\nwhen the waiters closed in on both combatants with their famous flying\nwedge formation and bore them outside, still resisting. I called McCarthy, one of the French _gar\u00e7ons_, and asked him the cause\nof the conflict. \u201cThe man with the red tie\u201d (that was my cosmopolite), said he, \u201cgot hot\non account of things said about the bum sidewalks and water supply of\nthe place he come from by the other guy.\u201d \u201cWhy,\u201d said I, bewildered, \u201cthat man is a citizen of the world\u2014a\ncosmopolite. He\u2014\u201d \u201cOriginally from Mattawamkeag, Maine, he said,\u201d continued McCarthy,\n\u201cand he wouldn\u2019t stand for no knockin\u2019 the place.\u201d", "words": 182}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The May moon shone bright upon the private boarding-house of Mrs.\nMurphy. By reference to the almanac a large amount of territory will be\ndiscovered upon which its rays also fell. Spring was in its heydey,\nwith hay fever soon to follow. The parks were green with new leaves and\nbuyers for the Western and Southern trade. Flowers and summer-resort\nagents were blowing; the air and answers to Lawson were growing milder;\nhand-organs, fountains and pinochle were playing everywhere. The windows of Mrs. Murphy\u2019s boarding-house were open. A group of\nboarders were seated on the high stoop upon round, flat mats like\nGerman pancakes. In one of the second-floor front windows Mrs. McCaskey awaited her\nhusband. Supper was cooling on the table. Its heat went into Mrs.\nMcCaskey. At nine Mr. McCaskey came. He carried his coat on his arm and his pipe\nin his teeth; and he apologised for disturbing the boarders on the\nsteps as he selected spots of stone between them on which to set his\nsize 9, width Ds. As he opened the door of his room he received a surprise. Instead of\nthe usual stove-lid or potato-masher for him to dodge, came only words. Mr. McCaskey reckoned that the benign May moon had softened the breast\nof his spouse. \u201cI heard ye,\u201d came the oral substitutes for kitchenware. \u201cYe can\napollygise to riff-raff of the streets for settin\u2019 yer unhandy feet on\nthe tails of their frocks, but ye\u2019d walk on the neck of yer wife the\nlength of a clothes-line without so much as a \u2018Kiss me fut,\u2019 and I\u2019m\nsure it\u2019s that long from rubberin\u2019 out the windy for ye and the\nvictuals cold such as there\u2019s money to buy after drinkin\u2019 up yer wages\nat Gallegher\u2019s every Saturday evenin\u2019, and the gas man here twice\nto-day for his.\u201d", "words": 306}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cWoman!\u201d said Mr. McCaskey, dashing his coat and hat upon a chair, \u201cthe\nnoise of ye is an insult to me appetite. When ye run down politeness ye\ntake the mortar from between the bricks of the foundations of society.\n\u2019Tis no more than exercisin\u2019 the acrimony of a gentleman when ye ask\nthe dissent of ladies blockin\u2019 the way for steppin\u2019 between them. Will\nye bring the pig\u2019s face of ye out of the windy and see to the food?\u201d Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily and went to the stove. There was something\nin her manner that warned Mr. McCaskey. When the corners of her mouth\nwent down suddenly like a barometer it usually foretold a fall of\ncrockery and tinware. \u201cPig\u2019s face, is it?\u201d said Mrs. McCaskey, and hurled a stewpan full of\nbacon and turnips at her lord. Mr. McCaskey was no novice at repartee. He knew what should follow the\nentr\u00e9e. On the table was a roast sirloin of pork, garnished with\nshamrocks. He retorted with this, and drew the appropriate return of a\nbread pudding in an earthen dish. A hunk of Swiss cheese accurately\nthrown by her husband struck Mrs. McCaskey below one eye. When she\nreplied with a well-aimed coffee-pot full of a hot, black,\nsemi-fragrant liquid the battle, according to courses, should have\nended.", "words": 221}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But Mr. McCaskey was no 50-cent _table d\u2019h\u00f4ter_. Let cheap Bohemians\nconsider coffee the end, if they would. Let them make that _faux pas_.\nHe was foxier still. Finger-bowls were not beyond the compass of his\nexperience. They were not to be had in the Pension Murphy; but their\nequivalent was at hand. Triumphantly he sent the granite-ware wash\nbasin at the head of his matrimonial adversary. Mrs. McCaskey dodged in\ntime. She reached for a flatiron, with which, as a sort of cordial, she\nhoped to bring the gastronomical duel to a close. But a loud, wailing\nscream downstairs caused both her and Mr. McCaskey to pause in a sort\nof involuntary armistice. On the sidewalk at the corner of the house Policeman Cleary was\nstanding with one ear upturned, listening to the crash of household\nutensils. \u201c\u2019Tis Jawn McCaskey and his missis at it again,\u201d meditated the\npoliceman. \u201cI wonder shall I go up and stop the row. I will not.\nMarried folks they are; and few pleasures they have. \u2019Twill not last\nlong. Sure, they\u2019ll have to borrow more dishes to keep it up with.\u201d And just then came the loud scream below-stairs, betokening fear or\ndire extremity. \u201c\u2019Tis probably the cat,\u201d said Policeman Cleary, and\nwalked hastily in the other direction.", "words": 215}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The boarders on the steps were fluttered. Mr. Toomey, an insurance\nsolicitor by birth and an investigator by profession, went inside to\nanalyse the scream. He returned with the news that Mrs. Murphy\u2019s little\nboy, Mike, was lost. Following the messenger, out bounced Mrs.\nMurphy\u2014two hundred pounds in tears and hysterics, clutching the air and\nhowling to the sky for the loss of thirty pounds of freckles and\nmischief. Bathos, truly; but Mr. Toomey sat down at the side of Miss\nPurdy, millinery, and their hands came together in sympathy. The two\nold maids, Misses Walsh, who complained every day about the noise in\nthe halls, inquired immediately if anybody had looked behind the clock. Major Grigg, who sat by his fat wife on the top step, arose and\nbuttoned his coat. \u201cThe little one lost?\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cI will scour\nthe city.\u201d His wife never allowed him out after dark. But now she said:\n\u201cGo, Ludovic!\u201d in a baritone voice. \u201cWhoever can look upon that\nmother\u2019s grief without springing to her relief has a heart of stone.\u201d\n\u201cGive me some thirty or\u2014sixty cents, my love,\u201d said the Major. \u201cLost\nchildren sometimes stray far. I may need carfares.\u201d Old man Denny, hall room, fourth floor back, who sat on the lowest\nstep, trying to read a paper by the street lamp, turned over a page to\nfollow up the article about the carpenters\u2019 strike. Mrs. Murphy\nshrieked to the moon: \u201cOh, ar-r-Mike, f\u2019r Gawd\u2019s sake, where is me\nlittle bit av a boy?\u201d \u201cWhen\u2019d ye see him last?\u201d asked old man Denny, with one eye on the\nreport of the Building Trades League.", "words": 273}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh,\u201d wailed Mrs. Murphy, \u201c\u2019twas yisterday, or maybe four hours ago! I\ndunno. But it\u2019s lost he is, me little boy Mike. He was playin\u2019 on the\nsidewalk only this mornin\u2019\u2014or was it Wednesday? I\u2019m that busy with\nwork, \u2019tis hard to keep up with dates. But I\u2019ve looked the house over\nfrom top to cellar, and it\u2019s gone he is. Oh, for the love av Hiven\u2014\u201d Silent, grim, colossal, the big city has ever stood against its\nrevilers. They call it hard as iron; they say that no pulse of pity\nbeats in its bosom; they compare its streets with lonely forests and\ndeserts of lava. But beneath the hard crust of the lobster is found a\ndelectable and luscious food. Perhaps a different simile would have\nbeen wiser. Still, nobody should take offence. We would call no one a\nlobster without good and sufficient claws. No calamity so touches the common heart of humanity as does the\nstraying of a little child. Their feet are so uncertain and feeble; the\nways are so steep and strange. Major Griggs hurried down to the corner, and up the avenue into Billy\u2019s\nplace. \u201cGimme a rye-high,\u201d he said to the servitor. \u201cHaven\u2019t seen a\nbow-legged, dirty-faced little devil of a six-year-old lost kid around\nhere anywhere, have you?\u201d Mr. Toomey retained Miss Purdy\u2019s hand on the steps. \u201cThink of that dear\nlittle babe,\u201d said Miss Purdy, \u201clost from his mother\u2019s side\u2014perhaps\nalready fallen beneath the iron hoofs of galloping steeds\u2014oh, isn\u2019t it\ndreadful?\u201d \u201cAin\u2019t that right?\u201d agreed Mr. Toomey, squeezing her hand. \u201cSay I start\nout and help look for um!\u201d \u201cPerhaps,\u201d said Miss Purdy, \u201cyou should. But, oh, Mr. Toomey, you are\nso dashing\u2014so reckless\u2014suppose in your enthusiasm some accident should\nbefall you, then what\u2014\u201d Old man Denny read on about the arbitration agreement, with one finger\non the lines.", "words": 310}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "In the second floor front Mr. and Mrs. McCaskey came to the window to\nrecover their second wind. Mr. McCaskey was scooping turnips out of his\nvest with a crooked forefinger, and his lady was wiping an eye that the\nsalt of the roast pork had not benefited. They heard the outcry below,\nand thrust their heads out of the window. \u201c\u2019Tis little Mike is lost,\u201d said Mrs. McCaskey, in a hushed voice, \u201cthe\nbeautiful, little, trouble-making angel of a gossoon!\u201d \u201cThe bit of a boy mislaid?\u201d said Mr. McCaskey, leaning out of the\nwindow. \u201cWhy, now, that\u2019s bad enough, entirely. The childer, they be\ndifferent. If \u2019twas a woman I\u2019d be willin\u2019, for they leave peace behind\n\u2019em when they go.\u201d Disregarding the thrust, Mrs. McCaskey caught her husband\u2019s arm. \u201cJawn,\u201d she said, sentimentally, \u201cMissis Murphy\u2019s little bye is lost.\n\u2019Tis a great city for losing little boys. Six years old he was. Jawn,\n\u2019tis the same age our little bye would have been if we had had one six\nyears ago.\u201d \u201cWe never did,\u201d said Mr. McCaskey, lingering with the fact. \u201cBut if we had, Jawn, think what sorrow would be in our hearts this\nnight, with our little Phelan run away and stolen in the city nowheres\nat all.\u201d \u201cYe talk foolishness,\u201d said Mr. McCaskey. \u201c\u2019Tis Pat he would be named,\nafter me old father in Cantrim.\u201d \u201cYe lie!\u201d said Mrs. McCaskey, without anger. \u201cMe brother was worth tin\ndozen bog-trotting McCaskeys. After him would the bye be named.\u201d She\nleaned over the window-sill and looked down at the hurrying and bustle\nbelow. \u201cJawn,\u201d said Mrs. McCaskey, softly, \u201cI\u2019m sorry I was hasty wid ye.\u201d \u201c\u2019Twas hasty puddin\u2019, as ye say,\u201d said her husband, \u201cand hurry-up\nturnips and get-a-move-on-ye coffee. \u2019Twas what ye could call a quick\nlunch, all right, and tell no lie.\u201d", "words": 307}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Mrs. McCaskey slipped her arm inside her husband\u2019s and took his rough\nhand in hers. \u201cListen at the cryin\u2019 of poor Mrs. Murphy,\u201d she said. \u201c\u2019Tis an awful\nthing for a bit of a bye to be lost in this great big city. If \u2019twas\nour little Phelan, Jawn, I\u2019d be breakin\u2019 me heart.\u201d Awkwardly Mr. McCaskey withdrew his hand. But he laid it around the\nnearing shoulder of his wife. \u201c\u2019Tis foolishness, of course,\u201d said he, roughly, \u201cbut I\u2019d be cut up\nsome meself if our little Pat was kidnapped or anything. But there\nnever was any childer for us. Sometimes I\u2019ve been ugly and hard with\nye, Judy. Forget it.\u201d They leaned together, and looked down at the heart-drama being acted\nbelow. Long they sat thus. People surged along the sidewalk, crowding,\nquestioning, filling the air with rumours, and inconsequent surmises.\nMrs. Murphy ploughed back and forth in their midst, like a soft\nmountain down which plunged an audible cataract of tears. Couriers came\nand went. Loud voices and a renewed uproar were raised in front of the\nboarding-house. \u201cWhat\u2019s up now, Judy?\u201d asked Mr. McCaskey. \u201c\u2019Tis Missis Murphy\u2019s voice,\u201d said Mrs. McCaskey, harking. \u201cShe says\nshe\u2019s after finding little Mike asleep behind the roll of old linoleum\nunder the bed in her room.\u201d Mr. McCaskey laughed loudly. \u201cThat\u2019s yer Phelan,\u201d he shouted, sardonically. \u201cDivil a bit would a Pat\nhave done that trick. If the bye we never had is strayed and stole, by\nthe powers, call him Phelan, and see him hide out under the bed like a\nmangy pup.\u201d Mrs. McCaskey arose heavily, and went toward the dish closet, with the\ncorners of her mouth drawn down.", "words": 282}, {"story": 48, "title": "BETWEEN ROUNDS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Policeman Cleary came back around the corner as the crowd dispersed.\nSurprised, he upturned an ear toward the McCaskey apartment, where the\ncrash of irons and chinaware and the ring of hurled kitchen utensils\nseemed as loud as before. Policeman Cleary took out his timepiece. \u201cBy the deported snakes!\u201d he exclaimed, \u201cJawn McCaskey and his lady\nhave been fightin\u2019 for an hour and a quarter by the watch. The missis\ncould give him forty pounds weight. Strength to his arm.\u201d Policeman Cleary strolled back around the corner. Old man Denny folded his paper and hurried up the steps just as Mrs.\nMurphy was about to lock the door for the night.", "words": 111}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "First Mrs. Parker would show you the double parlours. You would not\ndare to interrupt her description of their advantages and of the merits\nof the gentleman who had occupied them for eight years. Then you would\nmanage to stammer forth the confession that you were neither a doctor\nnor a dentist. Mrs. Parker\u2019s manner of receiving the admission was such\nthat you could never afterward entertain the same feeling toward your\nparents, who had neglected to train you up in one of the professions\nthat fitted Mrs. Parker\u2019s parlours. Next you ascended one flight of stairs and looked at the\nsecond-floor-back at $8. Convinced by her second-floor manner that it\nwas worth the $12 that Mr. Toosenberry always paid for it until he left\nto take charge of his brother\u2019s orange plantation in Florida near Palm\nBeach, where Mrs. McIntyre always spent the winters that had the double\nfront room with private bath, you managed to babble that you wanted\nsomething still cheaper. If you survived Mrs. Parker\u2019s scorn, you were taken to look at Mr.\nSkidder\u2019s large hall room on the third floor. Mr. Skidder\u2019s room was\nnot vacant. He wrote plays and smoked cigarettes in it all day long.\nBut every room-hunter was made to visit his room to admire the\nlambrequins. After each visit, Mr. Skidder, from the fright caused by\npossible eviction, would pay something on his rent.", "words": 233}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Then\u2014oh, then\u2014if you still stood on one foot, with your hot hand\nclutching the three moist dollars in your pocket, and hoarsely\nproclaimed your hideous and culpable poverty, nevermore would Mrs.\nParker be cicerone of yours. She would honk loudly the word \u201cClara,\u201d\nshe would show you her back, and march downstairs. Then Clara, the\ncoloured maid, would escort you up the carpeted ladder that served for\nthe fourth flight, and show you the Skylight Room. It occupied 7\u00d78 feet\nof floor space at the middle of the hall. On each side of it was a dark\nlumber closet or storeroom. In it was an iron cot, a washstand and a chair. A shelf was the\ndresser. Its four bare walls seemed to close in upon you like the sides\nof a coffin. Your hand crept to your throat, you gasped, you looked up\nas from a well\u2014and breathed once more. Through the glass of the little\nskylight you saw a square of blue infinity. \u201cTwo dollars, suh,\u201d Clara would say in her half-contemptuous,\nhalf-Tuskegeenial tones. One day Miss Leeson came hunting for a room. She carried a typewriter\nmade to be lugged around by a much larger lady. She was a very little\ngirl, with eyes and hair that had kept on growing after she had stopped\nand that always looked as if they were saying: \u201cGoodness me! Why didn\u2019t\nyou keep up with us?\u201d Mrs. Parker showed her the double parlours. \u201cIn this closet,\u201d she said,\n\u201cone could keep a skeleton or anaesthetic or coal\u2014\u201d \u201cBut I am neither a doctor nor a dentist,\u201d said Miss Leeson, with a\nshiver. Mrs. Parker gave her the incredulous, pitying, sneering, icy stare that\nshe kept for those who failed to qualify as doctors or dentists, and\nled the way to the second floor back.", "words": 304}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cEight dollars?\u201d said Miss Leeson. \u201cDear me! I\u2019m not Hetty if I do look\ngreen. I\u2019m just a poor little working girl. Show me something higher\nand lower.\u201d Mr. Skidder jumped and strewed the floor with cigarette stubs at the\nrap on his door. \u201cExcuse me, Mr. Skidder,\u201d said Mrs. Parker, with her demon\u2019s smile at\nhis pale looks. \u201cI didn\u2019t know you were in. I asked the lady to have a\nlook at your lambrequins.\u201d \u201cThey\u2019re too lovely for anything,\u201d said Miss Leeson, smiling in exactly\nthe way the angels do. After they had gone Mr. Skidder got very busy erasing the tall,\nblack-haired heroine from his latest (unproduced) play and inserting a\nsmall, roguish one with heavy, bright hair and vivacious features. \u201cAnna Held\u2019ll jump at it,\u201d said Mr. Skidder to himself, putting his\nfeet up against the lambrequins and disappearing in a cloud of smoke\nlike an aerial cuttlefish. Presently the tocsin call of \u201cClara!\u201d sounded to the world the state of\nMiss Leeson\u2019s purse. A dark goblin seized her, mounted a Stygian\nstairway, thrust her into a vault with a glimmer of light in its top\nand muttered the menacing and cabalistic words \u201cTwo dollars!\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll take it!\u201d sighed Miss Leeson, sinking down upon the squeaky iron\nbed. Every day Miss Leeson went out to work. At night she brought home\npapers with handwriting on them and made copies with her typewriter.\nSometimes she had no work at night, and then she would sit on the steps\nof the high stoop with the other roomers. Miss Leeson was not intended\nfor a sky-light room when the plans were drawn for her creation. She\nwas gay-hearted and full of tender, whimsical fancies. Once she let Mr.\nSkidder read to her three acts of his great (unpublished) comedy, \u201cIt\u2019s\nNo Kid; or, The Heir of the Subway.\u201d", "words": 309}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "There was rejoicing among the gentlemen roomers whenever Miss Leeson\nhad time to sit on the steps for an hour or two. But Miss Longnecker,\nthe tall blonde who taught in a public school and said, \u201cWell, really!\u201d\nto everything you said, sat on the top step and sniffed. And Miss Dorn,\nwho shot at the moving ducks at Coney every Sunday and worked in a\ndepartment store, sat on the bottom step and sniffed. Miss Leeson sat\non 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\nin a private, romantic (unspoken) drama in real life. And especially\nMr. Hoover, who was forty-five, fat, flush and foolish. And especially\nvery young Mr. Evans, who set up a hollow cough to induce her to ask\nhim to leave off cigarettes. The men voted her \u201cthe funniest and\njolliest ever,\u201d but the sniffs on the top step and the lower step were\nimplacable. I pray you let the drama halt while Chorus stalks to the footlights and\ndrops an epicedian tear upon the fatness of Mr. Hoover. Tune the pipes\nto the tragedy of tallow, the bane of bulk, the calamity of corpulence.\nTried out, Falstaff might have rendered more romance to the ton than\nwould have Romeo\u2019s rickety ribs to the ounce. A lover may sigh, but he\nmust not puff. To the train of Momus are the fat men remanded. In vain\nbeats the faithfullest heart above a 52-inch belt. Avaunt, Hoover!\nHoover, forty-five, flush and foolish, might carry off Helen herself;\nHoover, forty-five, flush, foolish and fat is meat for perdition. There\nwas never a chance for you, Hoover. As Mrs. Parker\u2019s roomers sat thus one summer\u2019s evening, Miss Leeson\nlooked up into the firmament and cried with her little gay laugh:", "words": 310}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy, there\u2019s Billy Jackson! I can see him from down here, too.\u201d All looked up\u2014some at the windows of skyscrapers, some casting about\nfor an airship, Jackson-guided. \u201cIt\u2019s that star,\u201d explained Miss Leeson, pointing with a tiny finger.\n\u201cNot the big one that twinkles\u2014the steady blue one near it. I can see\nit every night through my skylight. I named it Billy Jackson.\u201d \u201cWell, really!\u201d said Miss Longnecker. \u201cI didn\u2019t know you were an\nastronomer, Miss Leeson.\u201d \u201cOh, yes,\u201d said the small star gazer, \u201cI know as much as any of them\nabout the style of sleeves they\u2019re going to wear next fall in Mars.\u201d \u201cWell, really!\u201d said Miss Longnecker. \u201cThe star you refer to is Gamma,\nof the constellation Cassiopeia. It is nearly of the second magnitude,\nand its meridian passage is\u2014\u201d \u201cOh,\u201d said the very young Mr. Evans, \u201cI think Billy Jackson is a much\nbetter name for it.\u201d \u201cSame here,\u201d said Mr. Hoover, loudly breathing defiance to Miss\nLongnecker. \u201cI think Miss Leeson has just as much right to name stars\nas any of those old astrologers had.\u201d \u201cWell, really!\u201d said Miss Longnecker. \u201cI wonder whether it\u2019s a shooting star,\u201d remarked Miss Dorn. \u201cI hit\nnine ducks and a rabbit out of ten in the gallery at Coney Sunday.\u201d \u201cHe doesn\u2019t show up very well from down here,\u201d said Miss Leeson. \u201cYou\nought to see him from my room. You know you can see stars even in the\ndaytime from the bottom of a well. At night my room is like the shaft\nof a coal mine, and it makes Billy Jackson look like the big diamond\npin that Night fastens her kimono with.\u201d", "words": 277}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "There came a time after that when Miss Leeson brought no formidable\npapers home to copy. And when she went out in the morning, instead of\nworking, she went from office to office and let her heart melt away in\nthe drip of cold refusals transmitted through insolent office boys.\nThis went on. There came an evening when she wearily climbed Mrs. Parker\u2019s stoop at\nthe hour when she always returned from her dinner at the restaurant.\nBut she had had no dinner. As she stepped into the hall Mr. Hoover met her and seized his chance.\nHe asked her to marry him, and his fatness hovered above her like an\navalanche. She dodged, and caught the balustrade. He tried for her\nhand, and she raised it and smote him weakly in the face. Step by step\nshe went up, dragging herself by the railing. She passed Mr. Skidder\u2019s\ndoor as he was red-inking a stage direction for Myrtle Delorme (Miss\nLeeson) in his (unaccepted) comedy, to \u201cpirouette across stage from L\nto the side of the Count.\u201d Up the carpeted ladder she crawled at last\nand opened the door of the skylight room. She was too weak to light the lamp or to undress. She fell upon the\niron cot, her fragile body scarcely hollowing the worn springs. And in\nthat Erebus of the skylight room, she slowly raised her heavy eyelids,\nand smiled. For Billy Jackson was shining down on her, calm and bright and constant\nthrough the skylight. There was no world about her. She was sunk in a\npit of blackness, with but that small square of pallid light framing\nthe star that she had so whimsically and oh, so ineffectually named.\nMiss Longnecker must be right; it was Gamma, of the constellation\nCassiopeia, and not Billy Jackson. And yet she could not let it be\nGamma.", "words": 311}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "As she lay on her back she tried twice to raise her arm. The third time\nshe got two thin fingers to her lips and blew a kiss out of the black\npit to Billy Jackson. Her arm fell back limply. \u201cGood-bye, Billy,\u201d she murmured faintly. \u201cYou\u2019re millions of miles away\nand you won\u2019t even twinkle once. But you kept where I could see you\nmost of the time up there when there wasn\u2019t anything else but darkness\nto look at, didn\u2019t you? . . . Millions of miles . . . Good-bye, Billy\nJackson.\u201d Clara, the coloured maid, found the door locked at 10 the next day, and\nthey forced it open. Vinegar, and the slapping of wrists and burnt\nfeathers proving of no avail, some one ran to \u2018phone for an ambulance. In due time it backed up to the door with much gong-clanging, and the\ncapable young medico, in his white linen coat, ready, active,\nconfident, with his smooth face half debonair, half grim, danced up the\nsteps. \u201cAmbulance call to 49,\u201d he said briefly. \u201cWhat\u2019s the trouble?\u201d \u201cOh, yes, doctor,\u201d sniffed Mrs. Parker, as though her trouble that\nthere should be trouble in the house was the greater. \u201cI can\u2019t think\nwhat can be the matter with her. Nothing we could do would bring her\nto. It\u2019s a young woman, a Miss Elsie\u2014yes, a Miss Elsie Leeson. Never\nbefore in my house\u2014\u201d \u201cWhat room?\u201d cried the doctor in a terrible voice, to which Mrs. Parker\nwas a stranger. \u201cThe skylight room. It\u2014\u201d Evidently the ambulance doctor was familiar with the location of\nskylight rooms. He was gone up the stairs, four at a time. Mrs. Parker\nfollowed slowly, as her dignity demanded.", "words": 286}, {"story": 49, "title": "THE SKYLIGHT ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "On the first landing she met him coming back bearing the astronomer in\nhis arms. He stopped and let loose the practised scalpel of his tongue,\nnot loudly. Gradually Mrs. Parker crumpled as a stiff garment that\nslips down from a nail. Ever afterward there remained crumples in her\nmind and body. Sometimes her curious roomers would ask her what the\ndoctor said to her. \u201cLet that be,\u201d she would answer. \u201cIf I can get forgiveness for having\nheard it I will be satisfied.\u201d The ambulance physician strode with his burden through the pack of\nhounds that follow the curiosity chase, and even they fell back along\nthe sidewalk abashed, for his face was that of one who bears his own\ndead. They noticed that he did not lay down upon the bed prepared for it in\nthe ambulance the form that he carried, and all that he said was:\n\u201cDrive like h\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013l, Wilson,\u201d to the driver. That is all. Is it a story? In the next morning\u2019s paper I saw a little\nnews item, and the last sentence of it may help you (as it helped me)\nto weld the incidents together. It recounted the reception into Bellevue Hospital of a young woman who\nhad been removed from No. 49 East \u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 street, suffering from debility\ninduced by starvation. It concluded with these words: \u201cDr. William Jackson, the ambulance physician who attended the case,\nsays the patient will recover.\u201d", "words": 240}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "When one loves one\u2019s Art no service seems too hard. That is our premise. This story shall draw a conclusion from it, and\nshow at the same time that the premise is incorrect. That will be a new\nthing in logic, and a feat in story-telling somewhat older than the\ngreat wall of China. Joe Larrabee came out of the post-oak flats of the Middle West pulsing\nwith a genius for pictorial art. At six he drew a picture of the town\npump with a prominent citizen passing it hastily. This effort was\nframed and hung in the drug store window by the side of the ear of corn\nwith an uneven number of rows. At twenty he left for New York with a\nflowing necktie and a capital tied up somewhat closer. Delia Caruthers did things in six octaves so promisingly in a pine-tree\nvillage in the South that her relatives chipped in enough in her chip\nhat for her to go \u201cNorth\u201d and \u201cfinish.\u201d They could not see her f\u2014, but\nthat is our story. Joe and Delia met in an atelier where a number of art and music\nstudents had gathered to discuss chiaroscuro, Wagner, music,\nRembrandt\u2019s works, pictures, Waldteufel, wall paper, Chopin and Oolong. Joe and Delia became enamoured one of the other, or each of the other,\nas you please, and in a short time were married\u2014for (see above), when\none loves one\u2019s Art no service seems too hard. Mr. and Mrs. Larrabee began housekeeping in a flat. It was a lonesome\nflat\u2014something like the A sharp way down at the left-hand end of the\nkeyboard. And they were happy; for they had their Art, and they had\neach other. And my advice to the rich young man would be\u2014sell all thou\nhast, and give it to the poor\u2014janitor for the privilege of living in a\nflat with your Art and your Delia.", "words": 318}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Flat-dwellers shall indorse my dictum that theirs is the only true\nhappiness. If a home is happy it cannot fit too close\u2014let the dresser\ncollapse and become a billiard table; let the mantel turn to a rowing\nmachine, the escritoire to a spare bedchamber, the washstand to an\nupright piano; let the four walls come together, if they will, so you\nand your Delia are between. But if home be the other kind, let it be\nwide and long\u2014enter you at the Golden Gate, hang your hat on Hatteras,\nyour cape on Cape Horn and go out by the Labrador. Joe was painting in the class of the great Magister\u2014you know his fame.\nHis fees are high; his lessons are light\u2014his high-lights have brought\nhim renown. Delia was studying under Rosenstock\u2014you know his repute as\na disturber of the piano keys. They were mighty happy as long as their money lasted. So is every\u2014but I\nwill not be cynical. Their aims were very clear and defined. Joe was to\nbecome capable very soon of turning out pictures that old gentlemen\nwith thin side-whiskers and thick pocketbooks would sandbag one another\nin his studio for the privilege of buying. Delia was to become familiar\nand then contemptuous with Music, so that when she saw the orchestra\nseats and boxes unsold she could have sore throat and lobster in a\nprivate dining-room and refuse to go on the stage. But the best, in my opinion, was the home life in the little flat\u2014the\nardent, voluble chats after the day\u2019s study; the cozy dinners and\nfresh, light breakfasts; the interchange of ambitions\u2014ambitions\ninterwoven each with the other\u2019s or else inconsiderable\u2014the mutual help\nand inspiration; and\u2014overlook my artlessness\u2014stuffed olives and cheese\nsandwiches at 11 p.m.", "words": 291}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But after a while Art flagged. It sometimes does, even if some\nswitchman doesn\u2019t flag it. Everything going out and nothing coming in,\nas the vulgarians say. Money was lacking to pay Mr. Magister and Herr\nRosenstock their prices. When one loves one\u2019s Art no service seems too\nhard. So, Delia said she must give music lessons to keep the chafing\ndish bubbling. For two or three days she went out canvassing for pupils. One evening\nshe came home elated. \u201cJoe, dear,\u201d she said, gleefully, \u201cI\u2019ve a pupil. And, oh, the loveliest\npeople! General\u2014General A. B. Pinkney\u2019s daughter\u2014on Seventy-first\nstreet. Such a splendid house, Joe\u2014you ought to see the front door!\nByzantine I think you would call it. And inside! Oh, Joe, I never saw\nanything like it before. \u201cMy pupil is his daughter Clementina. I dearly love her already. She\u2019s\na delicate thing\u2014dresses always in white; and the sweetest, simplest\nmanners! Only eighteen years old. I\u2019m to give three lessons a week;\nand, just think, Joe! $5 a lesson. I don\u2019t mind it a bit; for when I\nget two or three more pupils I can resume my lessons with Herr\nRosenstock. Now, smooth out that wrinkle between your brows, dear, and\nlet\u2019s have a nice supper.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s all right for you, Dele,\u201d said Joe, attacking a can of peas\nwith a carving knife and a hatchet, \u201cbut how about me? Do you think I\u2019m\ngoing to let you hustle for wages while I philander in the regions of\nhigh art? Not by the bones of Benvenuto Cellini! I guess I can sell\npapers or lay cobblestones, and bring in a dollar or two.\u201d Delia came and hung about his neck.", "words": 282}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cJoe, dear, you are silly. You must keep on at your studies. It is not\nas if I had quit my music and gone to work at something else. While I\nteach I learn. I am always with my music. And we can live as happily as\nmillionaires on $15 a week. You mustn\u2019t think of leaving Mr. Magister.\u201d \u201cAll right,\u201d said Joe, reaching for the blue scalloped vegetable dish.\n\u201cBut I hate for you to be giving lessons. It isn\u2019t Art. But you\u2019re a\ntrump and a dear to do it.\u201d \u201cWhen one loves one\u2019s Art no service seems too hard,\u201d said Delia. \u201cMagister praised the sky in that sketch I made in the park,\u201d said Joe.\n\u201cAnd Tinkle gave me permission to hang two of them in his window. I may\nsell one if the right kind of a moneyed idiot sees them.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m sure you will,\u201d said Delia, sweetly. \u201cAnd now let\u2019s be thankful\nfor Gen. Pinkney and this veal roast.\u201d During all of the next week the Larrabees had an early breakfast. Joe\nwas enthusiastic about some morning-effect sketches he was doing in\nCentral Park, and Delia packed him off breakfasted, coddled, praised\nand kissed at 7 o\u2019clock. Art is an engaging mistress. It was most times\n7 o\u2019clock when he returned in the evening. At the end of the week Delia, sweetly proud but languid, triumphantly\ntossed three five-dollar bills on the 8\u00d710 (inches) centre table of the\n8\u00d710 (feet) flat parlour.", "words": 247}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cSometimes,\u201d she said, a little wearily, \u201cClementina tries me. I\u2019m\nafraid she doesn\u2019t practise enough, and I have to tell her the same\nthings so often. And then she always dresses entirely in white, and\nthat does get monotonous. But Gen. Pinkney is the dearest old man! I\nwish you could know him, Joe. He comes in sometimes when I am with\nClementina at the piano\u2014he is a widower, you know\u2014and stands there\npulling his white goatee. \u2018And how are the semiquavers and the\ndemisemiquavers progressing?\u2019 he always asks. \u201cI wish you could see the wainscoting in that drawing-room, Joe! And\nthose Astrakhan rug porti\u00e8res. And Clementina has such a funny little\ncough. I hope she is stronger than she looks. Oh, I really am getting\nattached to her, she is so gentle and high bred. Gen. Pinkney\u2019s brother\nwas once Minister to Bolivia.\u201d And then Joe, with the air of a Monte Cristo, drew forth a ten, a five,\na two and a one\u2014all legal tender notes\u2014and laid them beside Delia\u2019s\nearnings. \u201cSold that watercolour of the obelisk to a man from Peoria,\u201d he\nannounced overwhelmingly. \u201cDon\u2019t joke with me,\u201d said Delia, \u201cnot from Peoria!\u201d \u201cAll the way. I wish you could see him, Dele. Fat man with a woollen\nmuffler and a quill toothpick. He saw the sketch in Tinkle\u2019s window and\nthought it was a windmill at first. He was game, though, and bought it\nanyhow. He ordered another\u2014an oil sketch of the Lackawanna freight\ndepot\u2014to take back with him. Music lessons! Oh, I guess Art is still in\nit.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m so glad you\u2019ve kept on,\u201d said Delia, heartily. \u201cYou\u2019re bound to\nwin, dear. Thirty-three dollars! We never had so much to spend before.\nWe\u2019ll have oysters to-night.\u201d \u201cAnd filet mignon with champignons,\u201d said Joe. \u201cWhere is the olive\nfork?\u201d", "words": 303}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "On the next Saturday evening Joe reached home first. He spread his $18\non the parlour table and washed what seemed to be a great deal of dark\npaint from his hands. Half an hour later Delia arrived, her right hand tied up in a shapeless\nbundle of wraps and bandages. \u201cHow is this?\u201d asked Joe after the usual greetings. Delia laughed, but\nnot very joyously. \u201cClementina,\u201d she explained, \u201cinsisted upon a Welsh rabbit after her\nlesson. She is such a queer girl. Welsh rabbits at 5 in the afternoon.\nThe General was there. You should have seen him run for the chafing\ndish, Joe, just as if there wasn\u2019t a servant in the house. I know\nClementina isn\u2019t in good health; she is so nervous. In serving the\nrabbit she spilled a great lot of it, boiling hot, over my hand and\nwrist. It hurt awfully, Joe. And the dear girl was so sorry! But Gen.\nPinkney!\u2014Joe, that old man nearly went distracted. He rushed downstairs\nand sent somebody\u2014they said the furnace man or somebody in the\nbasement\u2014out to a drug store for some oil and things to bind it up\nwith. It doesn\u2019t hurt so much now.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s this?\u201d asked Joe, taking the hand tenderly and pulling at some\nwhite strands beneath the bandages. \u201cIt\u2019s something soft,\u201d said Delia, \u201cthat had oil on it. Oh, Joe, did\nyou sell another sketch?\u201d She had seen the money on the table. \u201cDid I?\u201d said Joe; \u201cjust ask the man from Peoria. He got his depot\nto-day, and he isn\u2019t sure but he thinks he wants another parkscape and\na view on the Hudson. What time this afternoon did you burn your hand,\nDele?\u201d \u201cFive o\u2019clock, I think,\u201d said Dele, plaintively. \u201cThe iron\u2014I mean the\nrabbit came off the fire about that time. You ought to have seen Gen.\nPinkney, Joe, when\u2014\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 50, "title": "A SERVICE OF LOVE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cSit down here a moment, Dele,\u201d said Joe. He drew her to the couch, sat\nbeside her and put his arm across her shoulders. \u201cWhat have you been doing for the last two weeks, Dele?\u201d he asked. She braved it for a moment or two with an eye full of love and\nstubbornness, and murmured a phrase or two vaguely of Gen. Pinkney; but\nat length down went her head and out came the truth and tears. \u201cI couldn\u2019t get any pupils,\u201d she confessed. \u201cAnd I couldn\u2019t bear to\nhave you give up your lessons; and I got a place ironing shirts in that\nbig Twenty-fourth street laundry. And I think I did very well to make\nup both General Pinkney and Clementina, don\u2019t you, Joe? And when a girl\nin the laundry set down a hot iron on my hand this afternoon I was all\nthe way home making up that story about the Welsh rabbit. You\u2019re not\nangry, are you, Joe? And if I hadn\u2019t got the work you mightn\u2019t have\nsold your sketches to that man from Peoria.\u201d \u201cHe wasn\u2019t from Peoria,\u201d said Joe, slowly. \u201cWell, it doesn\u2019t matter where he was from. How clever you are,\nJoe\u2014and\u2014kiss me, Joe\u2014and what made you ever suspect that I wasn\u2019t\ngiving music lessons to Clementina?\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t,\u201d said Joe, \u201cuntil to-night. And I wouldn\u2019t have then, only I\nsent up this cotton waste and oil from the engine-room this afternoon\nfor a girl upstairs who had her hand burned with a smoothing-iron. I\u2019ve\nbeen firing the engine in that laundry for the last two weeks.\u201d \u201cAnd then you didn\u2019t\u2014\u201d \u201cMy purchaser from Peoria,\u201d said Joe, \u201cand Gen. Pinkney are both\ncreations of the same art\u2014but you wouldn\u2019t call it either painting or\nmusic.\u201d And then they both laughed, and Joe began: \u201cWhen one loves one\u2019s Art no service seems\u2014\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Every Saturday night the Clover Leaf Social Club gave a hop in the hall\nof the Give and Take Athletic Association on the East Side. In order to\nattend one of these dances you must be a member of the Give and\nTake\u2014or, if you belong to the division that starts off with the right\nfoot in waltzing, you must work in Rhinegold\u2019s paper-box factory.\nStill, any Clover Leaf was privileged to escort or be escorted by an\noutsider to a single dance. But mostly each Give and Take brought the\npaper-box girl that he affected; and few strangers could boast of\nhaving shaken a foot at the regular hops. Maggie Toole, on account of her dull eyes, broad mouth and left-handed\nstyle of footwork in the two-step, went to the dances with Anna McCarty\nand her \u201cfellow.\u201d Anna and Maggie worked side by side in the factory,\nand were the greatest chums ever. So Anna always made Jimmy Burns take\nher by Maggie\u2019s house every Saturday night so that her friend could go\nto the dance with them. The Give and Take Athletic Association lived up to its name. The hall\nof the association in Orchard street was fitted out with muscle-making\ninventions. With the fibres thus builded up the members were wont to\nengage the police and rival social and athletic organisations in joyous\ncombat. Between these more serious occupations the Saturday night hop\nwith the paper-box factory girls came as a refining influence and as an\nefficient screen. For sometimes the tip went \u2019round, and if you were\namong the elect that tiptoed up the dark back stairway you might see as\nneat and satisfying a little welter-weight affair to a finish as ever\nhappened inside the ropes.", "words": 291}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "On Saturdays Rhinegold\u2019s paper-box factory closed at 3 P. M. On one\nsuch afternoon Anna and Maggie walked homeward together. At Maggie\u2019s\ndoor Anna said, as usual: \u201cBe ready at seven, sharp, Mag; and Jimmy and\nme\u2019ll come by for you.\u201d But what was this? Instead of the customary humble and grateful thanks\nfrom the non-escorted one there was to be perceived a high-poised head,\na prideful dimpling at the corners of a broad mouth, and almost a\nsparkle in a dull brown eye. \u201cThanks, Anna,\u201d said Maggie; \u201cbut you and Jimmy needn\u2019t bother\nto-night. I\u2019ve a gentleman friend that\u2019s coming \u2019round to escort me to\nthe hop.\u201d The comely Anna pounced upon her friend, shook her, chided and\nbeseeched her. Maggie Toole catch a fellow! Plain, dear, loyal,\nunattractive Maggie, so sweet as a chum, so unsought for a two-step or\na moonlit bench in the little park. How was it? When did it happen? Who\nwas it? \u201cYou\u2019ll see to-night,\u201d said Maggie, flushed with the wine of the first\ngrapes she had gathered in Cupid\u2019s vineyard. \u201cHe\u2019s swell all right.\nHe\u2019s two inches taller than Jimmy, and an up-to-date dresser. I\u2019ll\nintroduce him, Anna, just as soon as we get to the hall.\u201d Anna and Jimmy were among the first Clover Leafs to arrive that\nevening. Anna\u2019s eyes were brightly fixed upon the door of the hall to\ncatch the first glimpse of her friend\u2019s \u201ccatch.\u201d At 8:30 Miss Toole swept into the hall with her escort. Quickly her\ntriumphant eye discovered her chum under the wing of her faithful\nJimmy. \u201cOh, gee!\u201d cried Anna, \u201cMag ain\u2019t made a hit\u2014oh, no! Swell fellow?\nwell, I guess! Style? Look at \u2019um.\u201d", "words": 282}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cGo as far as you like,\u201d said Jimmy, with sandpaper in his voice. \u201cCop\nhim out if you want him. These new guys always win out with the push.\nDon\u2019t mind me. He don\u2019t squeeze all the limes, I guess. Huh!\u201d \u201cShut up, Jimmy. You know what I mean. I\u2019m glad for Mag. First fellow\nshe ever had. Oh, here they come.\u201d Across the floor Maggie sailed like a coquettish yacht convoyed by a\nstately cruiser. And truly, her companion justified the encomiums of\nthe faithful chum. He stood two inches taller than the average Give and\nTake athlete; his dark hair curled; his eyes and his teeth flashed\nwhenever he bestowed his frequent smiles. The young men of the Clover\nLeaf Club pinned not their faith to the graces of person as much as\nthey did to its prowess, its achievements in hand-to-hand conflicts,\nand its preservation from the legal duress that constantly menaced it.\nThe member of the association who would bind a paper-box maiden to his\nconquering chariot scorned to employ Beau Brummel airs. They were not\nconsidered honourable methods of warfare. The swelling biceps, the coat\nstraining at its buttons over the chest, the air of conscious\nconviction of the supereminence of the male in the cosmogony of\ncreation, even a calm display of bow legs as subduing and enchanting\nagents in the gentle tourneys of Cupid\u2014these were the approved arms and\nammunition of the Clover Leaf gallants. They viewed, then, genuflexions\nand alluring poses of this visitor with their chins at a new angle. \u201cA friend of mine, Mr. Terry O\u2019Sullivan,\u201d was Maggie\u2019s formula of\nintroduction. She led him around the room, presenting him to each\nnew-arriving Clover Leaf. Almost was she pretty now, with the unique\nluminosity in her eyes that comes to a girl with her first suitor and a\nkitten with its first mouse.", "words": 312}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cMaggie Toole\u2019s got a fellow at last,\u201d was the word that went round\namong the paper-box girls. \u201cPipe Mag\u2019s floor-walker\u201d\u2014thus the Give and\nTakes expressed their indifferent contempt. Usually at the weekly hops Maggie kept a spot on the wall warm with her\nback. She felt and showed so much gratitude whenever a self-sacrificing\npartner invited her to dance that his pleasure was cheapened and\ndiminished. She had even grown used to noticing Anna joggle the\nreluctant Jimmy with her elbow as a signal for him to invite her chum\nto walk over his feet through a two-step. But to-night the pumpkin had turned to a coach and six. Terry\nO\u2019Sullivan was a victorious Prince Charming, and Maggie Toole winged\nher first butterfly flight. And though our tropes of fairyland be mixed\nwith those of entomology they shall not spill one drop of ambrosia from\nthe rose-crowned melody of Maggie\u2019s one perfect night. The girls besieged her for introductions to her \u201cfellow.\u201d The Clover\nLeaf young men, after two years of blindness, suddenly perceived charms\nin Miss Toole. They flexed their compelling muscles before her and\nbespoke her for the dance. Thus she scored; but to Terry O\u2019Sullivan the honours of the evening\nfell thick and fast. He shook his curls; he smiled and went easily\nthrough the seven motions for acquiring grace in your own room before\nan open window ten minutes each day. He danced like a faun; he\nintroduced manner and style and atmosphere; his words came trippingly\nupon his tongue, and\u2014he waltzed twice in succession with the paper-box\ngirl that Dempsey Donovan brought.", "words": 267}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dempsey was the leader of the association. He wore a dress suit, and\ncould chin the bar twice with one hand. He was one of \u201cBig Mike\u201d\nO\u2019Sullivan\u2019s lieutenants, and was never troubled by trouble. No cop\ndared to arrest him. Whenever he broke a pushcart man\u2019s head or shot a\nmember of the Heinrick B. Sweeney Outing and Literary Association in\nthe kneecap, an officer would drop around and say: \u201cThe Cap\u2019n \u2019d like to see ye a few minutes round to the office whin ye\nhave time, Dempsey, me boy.\u201d But there would be sundry gentlemen there with large gold fob chains\nand black cigars; and somebody would tell a funny story, and then\nDempsey would go back and work half an hour with the six-pound\ndumbbells. So, doing a tight-rope act on a wire stretched across\nNiagara was a safe terpsichorean performance compared with waltzing\ntwice with Dempsey Donovan\u2019s paper-box girl. At 10 o\u2019clock the jolly\nround face of \u201cBig Mike\u201d O\u2019Sullivan shone at the door for five minutes\nupon the scene. He always looked in for five minutes, smiled at the\ngirls and handed out real perfectos to the delighted boys. Dempsey Donovan was at his elbow instantly, talking rapidly. \u201cBig Mike\u201d\nlooked carefully at the dancers, smiled, shook his head and departed. The music stopped. The dancers scattered to the chairs along the walls.\nTerry O\u2019Sullivan, with his entrancing bow, relinquished a pretty girl\nin blue to her partner and started back to find Maggie. Dempsey\nintercepted him in the middle of the floor. Some fine instinct that Rome must have bequeathed to us caused nearly\nevery one to turn and look at them\u2014there was a subtle feeling that two\ngladiators had met in the arena. Two or three Give and Takes with tight\ncoat sleeves drew nearer. \u201cOne moment, Mr. O\u2019Sullivan,\u201d said Dempsey. \u201cI hope you\u2019re enjoying\nyourself. Where did you say you live?\u201d", "words": 320}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The two gladiators were well matched. Dempsey had, perhaps, ten pounds\nof weight to give away. The O\u2019Sullivan had breadth with quickness.\nDempsey had a glacial eye, a dominating slit of a mouth, an\nindestructible jaw, a complexion like a belle\u2019s and the coolness of a\nchampion. The visitor showed more fire in his contempt and less control\nover his conspicuous sneer. They were enemies by the law written when\nthe rocks were molten. They were each too splendid, too mighty, too\nincomparable to divide pre-eminence. One only must survive. \u201cI live on Grand,\u201d said O\u2019Sullivan, insolently; \u201cand no trouble to find\nme at home. Where do you live?\u201d Dempsey ignored the question. \u201cYou say your name\u2019s O\u2019Sullivan,\u201d he went on. \u201cWell, \u2018Big Mike\u2019 says he\nnever saw you before.\u201d \u201cLots of things he never saw,\u201d said the favourite of the hop. \u201cAs a rule,\u201d went on Dempsey, huskily sweet, \u201cO\u2019Sullivans in this\ndistrict know one another. You escorted one of our lady members here,\nand we want a chance to make good. If you\u2019ve got a family tree let\u2019s\nsee a few historical O\u2019Sullivan buds come out on it. Or do you want us\nto dig it out of you by the roots?\u201d \u201cSuppose you mind your own business,\u201d suggested O\u2019Sullivan, blandly. Dempsey\u2019s eye brightened. He held up an inspired forefinger as though a\nbrilliant idea had struck him. \u201cI\u2019ve got it now,\u201d he said cordially. \u201cIt was just a little mistake.\nYou ain\u2019t no O\u2019Sullivan. You are a ring-tailed monkey. Excuse us for\nnot recognising you at first.\u201d O\u2019Sullivan\u2019s eye flashed. He made a quick movement, but Andy Geoghan\nwas ready and caught his arm.", "words": 277}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dempsey nodded at Andy and William McMahan, the secretary of the club,\nand walked rapidly toward a door at the rear of the hall. Two other\nmembers of the Give and Take Association swiftly joined the little\ngroup. Terry O\u2019Sullivan was now in the hands of the Board of Rules and\nSocial Referees. They spoke to him briefly and softly, and conducted\nhim out through the same door at the rear. This movement on the part of the Clover Leaf members requires a word of\nelucidation. Back of the association hall was a smaller room rented by\nthe club. In this room personal difficulties that arose on the ballroom\nfloor were settled, man to man, with the weapons of nature, under the\nsupervision of the board. No lady could say that she had witnessed a\nfight at a Clover Leaf hop in several years. Its gentlemen members\nguaranteed that. So easily and smoothly had Dempsey and the board done their preliminary\nwork that many in the hall had not noticed the checking of the\nfascinating O\u2019Sullivan\u2019s social triumph. Among these was Maggie. She\nlooked about for her escort. \u201cSmoke up!\u201d said Rose Cassidy. \u201cWasn\u2019t you on? Demps Donovan picked a\nscrap with your Lizzie-boy, and they\u2019ve waltzed out to the slaughter\nroom with him. How\u2019s my hair look done up this way, Mag?\u201d Maggie laid a hand on the bosom of her cheesecloth waist. \u201cGone to fight with Dempsey!\u201d she said, breathlessly. \u201cThey\u2019ve got to\nbe stopped. Dempsey Donovan can\u2019t fight him. Why, he\u2019ll\u2014he\u2019ll kill\nhim!\u201d \u201cAh, what do you care?\u201d said Rosa. \u201cDon\u2019t some of \u2019em fight every hop?\u201d", "words": 270}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But Maggie was off, darting her zig-zag way through the maze of\ndancers. She burst through the rear door into the dark hall and then\nthrew her solid shoulder against the door of the room of single combat.\nIt gave way, and in the instant that she entered her eye caught the\nscene\u2014the Board standing about with open watches; Dempsey Donovan in\nhis shirt sleeves dancing, light-footed, with the wary grace of the\nmodern pugilist, within easy reach of his adversary; Terry O\u2019Sullivan\nstanding with arms folded and a murderous look in his dark eyes. And\nwithout slacking the speed of her entrance she leaped forward with a\nscream\u2014leaped in time to catch and hang upon the arm of O\u2019Sullivan that\nwas suddenly uplifted, and to whisk from it the long, bright stiletto\nthat he had drawn from his bosom. The knife fell and rang upon the floor. Cold steel drawn in the rooms\nof the Give and Take Association! Such a thing had never happened\nbefore. Every one stood motionless for a minute. Andy Geoghan kicked\nthe stiletto with the toe of his shoe curiously, like an antiquarian\nwho has come upon some ancient weapon unknown to his learning. And then O\u2019Sullivan hissed something unintelligible between his teeth.\nDempsey and the board exchanged looks. And then Dempsey looked at\nO\u2019Sullivan without anger, as one looks at a stray dog, and nodded his\nhead in the direction of the door. \u201cThe back stairs, Giuseppi,\u201d he said, briefly. \u201cSomebody\u2019ll pitch your\nhat down after you.\u201d Maggie walked up to Dempsey Donovan. There was a brilliant spot of red\nin her cheeks, down which slow tears were running. But she looked him\nbravely in the eye.", "words": 284}, {"story": 51, "title": "THE COMING-OUT OF MAGGIE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI knew it, Dempsey,\u201d she said, as her eyes grew dull even in their\ntears. \u201cI knew he was a Guinea. His name\u2019s Tony Spinelli. I hurried in\nwhen they told me you and him was scrappin\u2019. Them Guineas always\ncarries knives. But you don\u2019t understand, Dempsey. I never had a fellow\nin my life. I got tired of comin\u2019 with Anna and Jimmy every night, so I\nfixed it with him to call himself O\u2019Sullivan, and brought him along. I\nknew there\u2019d be nothin\u2019 doin\u2019 for him if he came as a Dago. I guess\nI\u2019ll resign from the club now.\u201d Dempsey turned to Andy Geoghan. \u201cChuck that cheese slicer out of the window,\u201d he said, \u201cand tell \u2019em\ninside that Mr. O\u2019Sullivan has had a telephone message to go down to\nTammany Hall.\u201d And then he turned back to Maggie. \u201cSay, Mag,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ll see you home. And how about next Saturday\nnight? Will you come to the hop with me if I call around for you?\u201d It was remarkable how quickly Maggie\u2019s eyes could change from dull to a\nshining brown. \u201cWith you, Dempsey?\u201d she stammered. \u201cSay\u2014will a duck swim?\u201d", "words": 194}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "There were two or three things that I wanted to know. I do not care\nabout a mystery. So I began to inquire. It took me two weeks to find out what women carry in dress suit cases.\nAnd then I began to ask why a mattress is made in two pieces. This\nserious query was at first received with suspicion because it sounded\nlike a conundrum. I was at last assured that its double form of\nconstruction was designed to make lighter the burden of woman, who\nmakes up beds. I was so foolish as to persist, begging to know why,\nthen, they were not made in two equal pieces; whereupon I was shunned. The third draught that I craved from the fount of knowledge was\nenlightenment concerning the character known as A Man About Town. He\nwas more vague in my mind than a type should be. We must have a\nconcrete idea of anything, even if it be an imaginary idea, before we\ncan comprehend it. Now, I have a mental picture of John Doe that is as\nclear as a steel engraving. His eyes are weak blue; he wears a brown\nvest and a shiny black serge coat. He stands always in the sunshine\nchewing something; and he keeps half-shutting his pocket knife and\nopening it again with his thumb. And, if the Man Higher Up is ever\nfound, take my assurance for it, he will be a large, pale man with blue\nwristlets showing under his cuffs, and he will be sitting to have his\nshoes polished within sound of a bowling alley, and there will be\nsomewhere about him turquoises.", "words": 276}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But the canvas of my imagination, when it came to limning the Man About\nTown, was blank. I fancied that he had a detachable sneer (like the\nsmile of the Cheshire cat) and attached cuffs; and that was all.\nWhereupon I asked a newspaper reporter about him. \u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201ca \u2018Man About Town\u2019 is something between a \u2018rounder\u2019 and a\n\u2018clubman.\u2019 He isn\u2019t exactly\u2014well, he fits in between Mrs. Fish\u2019s\nreceptions and private boxing bouts. He doesn\u2019t\u2014well, he doesn\u2019t belong\neither to the Lotos Club or to the Jerry McGeogheghan Galvanised Iron\nWorkers\u2019 Apprentices\u2019 Left Hook Chowder Association. I don\u2019t exactly\nknow how to describe him to you. You\u2019ll see him everywhere there\u2019s\nanything doing. Yes, I suppose he\u2019s a type. Dress clothes every\nevening; knows the ropes; calls every policeman and waiter in town by\ntheir first names. No; he never travels with the hydrogen derivatives.\nYou generally see him alone or with another man.\u201d My friend the reporter left me, and I wandered further afield. By this\ntime the 3126 electric lights on the Rialto were alight. People passed,\nbut they held me not. Paphian eyes rayed upon me, and left me\nunscathed. Diners, heimgangers, shop-girls, confidence men,\npanhandlers, actors, highwaymen, millionaires and outlanders hurried,\nskipped, strolled, sneaked, swaggered and scurried by me; but I took no\nnote of them. I knew them all; I had read their hearts; they had\nserved. I wanted my Man About Town. He was a type, and to drop him\nwould be an error\u2014a typograph\u2014but no! let us continue.", "words": 258}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Let us continue with a moral digression. To see a family reading the\nSunday paper gratifies. The sections have been separated. Papa is\nearnestly scanning the page that pictures the young lady exercising\nbefore an open window, and bending\u2014but there, there! Mamma is\ninterested in trying to guess the missing letters in the word N_w Yo_k.\nThe oldest girls are eagerly perusing the financial reports, for a\ncertain young man remarked last Sunday night that he had taken a flyer\nin Q., X. & Z. Willie, the eighteen-year-old son, who attends the New\nYork public school, is absorbed in the weekly article describing how to\nmake over an old skirt, for he hopes to take a prize in sewing on\ngraduation day. Grandma is holding to the comic supplement with a two-hours\u2019 grip; and\nlittle Tottie, the baby, is rocking along the best she can with the\nreal estate transfers. This view is intended to be reassuring, for it\nis desirable that a few lines of this story be skipped. For it\nintroduces strong drink. I went into a caf\u00e9 to\u2014and while it was being mixed I asked the man who\ngrabs up your hot Scotch spoon as soon as you lay it down what he\nunderstood by the term, epithet, description, designation,\ncharacterisation or appellation, viz.: a \u201cMan About Town.\u201d \u201cWhy,\u201d said he, carefully, \u201cit means a fly guy that\u2019s wise to the\nall-night push\u2014see? It\u2019s a hot sport that you can\u2019t bump to the rail\nanywhere between the Flatirons\u2014see? I guess that\u2019s about what it\nmeans.\u201d I thanked him and departed. On the sidewalk a Salvation lassie shook her contribution receptacle\ngently against my waistcoat pocket. \u201cWould you mind telling me,\u201d I asked her, \u201cif you ever meet with the\ncharacter commonly denominated as \u2018A Man About Town\u2019 during your daily\nwanderings?\u201d", "words": 304}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI think I know whom you mean,\u201d she answered, with a gentle smile. \u201cWe\nsee them in the same places night after night. They are the devil\u2019s\nbody guard, and if the soldiers of any army are as faithful as they\nare, their commanders are well served. We go among them, diverting a\nfew pennies from their wickedness to the Lord\u2019s service.\u201d She shook the box again and I dropped a dime into it. In front of a glittering hotel a friend of mine, a critic, was climbing\nfrom a cab. He seemed at leisure; and I put my question to him. He\nanswered me conscientiously, as I was sure he would. \u201cThere is a type of \u2018Man About Town\u2019 in New York,\u201d he answered. \u201cThe\nterm is quite familiar to me, but I don\u2019t think I was ever called upon\nto define the character before. It would be difficult to point you out\nan exact specimen. I would say, offhand, that it is a man who had a\nhopeless case of the peculiar New York disease of wanting to see and\nknow. At 6 o\u2019clock each day life begins with him. He follows rigidly\nthe conventions of dress and manners; but in the business of poking his\nnose into places where he does not belong he could give pointers to a\ncivet cat or a jackdaw. He is the man who has chased Bohemia about the\ntown from rathskeller to roof garden and from Hester street to Harlem\nuntil you can\u2019t find a place in the city where they don\u2019t cut their\nspaghetti with a knife. Your \u2018Man About Town\u2019 has done that. He is\nalways on the scent of something new. He is curiosity, impudence and\nomnipresence. Hansoms were made for him, and gold-banded cigars; and\nthe curse of music at dinner. There are not so many of him; but his\nminority report is adopted everywhere.", "words": 318}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m glad you brought up the subject; I\u2019ve felt the influence of this\nnocturnal blight upon our city, but I never thought to analyse it\nbefore. I can see now that your \u2018Man About Town\u2019 should have been\nclassified long ago. In his wake spring up wine agents and cloak\nmodels; and the orchestra plays \u2018Let\u2019s All Go Up to Maud\u2019s\u2019 for him, by\nrequest, instead of H\u00e4ndel. He makes his rounds every evening; while\nyou and I see the elephant once a week. When the cigar store is raided,\nhe winks at the officer, familiar with his ground, and walks away\nimmune, while you and I search among the Presidents for names, and\namong the stars for addresses to give the desk sergeant.\u201d My friend, the critic, paused to acquire breath for fresh eloquence. I\nseized my advantage. \u201cYou have classified him,\u201d I cried with joy. \u201cYou have painted his\nportrait in the gallery of city types. But I must meet one face to\nface. I must study the Man About Town at first hand. Where shall I find\nhim? How shall I know him?\u201d Without seeming to hear me, the critic went on. And his cab-driver was\nwaiting for his fare, too. \u201cHe is the sublimated essence of Butt-in; the refined, intrinsic\nextract of Rubber; the concentrated, purified, irrefutable, unavoidable\nspirit of Curiosity and Inquisitiveness. A new sensation is the breath\nin his nostrils; when his experience is exhausted he explores new\nfields with the indefatigability of a\u2014\u201d \u201cExcuse me,\u201d I interrupted, \u201cbut can you produce one of this type? It\nis a new thing to me. I must study it. I will search the town over\nuntil I find one. Its habitat must be here on Broadway.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 52, "title": "MAN ABOUT TOWN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI am about to dine here,\u201d said my friend. \u201cCome inside, and if there\nis a Man About Town present I will point him out to you. I know most of\nthe regular patrons here.\u201d \u201cI am not dining yet,\u201d I said to him. \u201cYou will excuse me. I am going\nto find my Man About Town this night if I have to rake New York from\nthe Battery to Little Coney Island.\u201d I left the hotel and walked down Broadway. The pursuit of my type gave\na pleasant savour of life and interest to the air I breathed. I was\nglad to be in a city so great, so complex and diversified. Leisurely\nand with something of an air I strolled along with my heart expanding\nat the thought that I was a citizen of great Gotham, a sharer in its\nmagnificence and pleasures, a partaker in its glory and prestige. I turned to cross the street. I heard something buzz like a bee, and\nthen I took a long, pleasant ride with Santos-Dumont. When I opened my eyes I remembered a smell of gasoline, and I said\naloud: \u201cHasn\u2019t it passed yet?\u201d A hospital nurse laid a hand that was not particularly soft upon my\nbrow that was not at all fevered. A young doctor came along, grinned,\nand handed me a morning newspaper. \u201cWant to see how it happened?\u201d he asked cheerily. I read the article.\nIts headlines began where I heard the buzzing leave off the night\nbefore. It closed with these lines: \u201c\u2014Bellevue Hospital, where it was said that his injuries were not\nserious. He appeared to be a typical Man About Town.\u201d", "words": 278}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese\nhonk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to\ntheir husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park,\nyou may know that winter is near at hand. A dead leaf fell in Soapy\u2019s lap. That was Jack Frost\u2019s card. Jack is\nkind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning\nof his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his\npasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors,\nso that the inhabitants thereof may make ready. Soapy\u2019s mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for\nhim to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to\nprovide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on\nhis bench. The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them\nthere were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific\nSouthern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island\nwas what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and\ncongenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the\nessence of things desirable.", "words": 206}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "For years the hospitable Blackwell\u2019s had been his winter quarters. Just\nas his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to\nPalm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble\narrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was\ncome. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed\nbeneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to\nrepulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in\nthe ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy\u2019s\nmind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the\ncity\u2019s dependents. In Soapy\u2019s opinion the Law was more benign than\nPhilanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and\neleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food\naccordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy\u2019s proud spirit the\ngifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in\nhumiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of\nphilanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have\nits toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private\nand personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the\nlaw, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a\ngentleman\u2019s private affairs. Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about\naccomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The\npleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and\nthen, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without\nuproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.", "words": 289}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the\nlevel sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up\nBroadway he turned, and halted at a glittering caf\u00e9, where are gathered\ntogether nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and\nthe protoplasm. Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest\nupward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black,\nready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary\non Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant\nunsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show\nabove the table would raise no doubt in the waiter\u2019s mind. A roasted\nmallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing\u2014with a bottle of\nChablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for\nthe cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call\nforth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the caf\u00e9 management;\nand yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to\nhis winter refuge. But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter\u2019s eye\nfell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready\nhands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the\nsidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard. Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted\nisland was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo\nmust be thought of.", "words": 266}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed\nwares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a\ncobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around\nthe corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands\nin his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons. \u201cWhere\u2019s the man that done that?\u201d inquired the officer excitedly. \u201cDon\u2019t you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?\u201d\nsaid Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good\nfortune. The policeman\u2019s mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who\nsmash windows do not remain to parley with the law\u2019s minions. They take\nto their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running\nto catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with\ndisgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful. On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great\npretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its\ncrockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this\nplace Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without\nchallenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks,\ndoughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the\nminutest coin and himself were strangers. \u201cNow, get busy and call a cop,\u201d said Soapy. \u201cAnd don\u2019t keep a gentleman\nwaiting.\u201d \u201cNo cop for youse,\u201d said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and\nan eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. \u201cHey, Con!\u201d", "words": 270}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched\nSoapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter\u2019s rule opens, and beat\nthe dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island\nseemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two\ndoors away laughed and walked down the street. Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo\ncapture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously\ntermed to himself a \u201ccinch.\u201d A young woman of a modest and pleasing\nguise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest\nat its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the\nwindow a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water\nplug. It was Soapy\u2019s design to assume the role of the despicable and\nexecrated \u201cmasher.\u201d The refined and elegant appearance of his victim\nand the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe\nthat he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that\nwould insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little\nisle. Soapy straightened the lady missionary\u2019s ready-made tie, dragged his\nshrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled\ntoward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden\ncoughs and \u201chems,\u201d smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the\nimpudent and contemptible litany of the \u201cmasher.\u201d With half an eye\nSoapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman\nmoved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon\nthe shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised\nhis hat and said: \u201cAh there, Bedelia! Don\u2019t you want to come and play in my yard?\u201d", "words": 296}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to\nbeckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular\nhaven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the\nstation-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand,\ncaught Soapy\u2019s coat sleeve. \u201cSure, Mike,\u201d she said joyfully, \u201cif you\u2019ll blow me to a pail of suds.\nI\u2019d have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching.\u201d With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked\npast 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\ndistrict where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows\nand librettos. Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the\nwintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment\nhad rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of\npanic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly\nin front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of\n\u201cdisorderly conduct.\u201d On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his\nharsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the\nwelkin. The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked\nto a citizen. \u201c\u2019Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin\u2019 the goose egg they give to the\nHartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We\u2019ve instructions to lave them\nbe.\u201d Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a\npoliceman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an\nunattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling\nwind.", "words": 288}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a\nswinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering.\nSoapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it\nslowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily. \u201cMy umbrella,\u201d he said, sternly. \u201cOh, is it?\u201d sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. \u201cWell, why\ndon\u2019t you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don\u2019t you\ncall a cop? There stands one on the corner.\u201d The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a\npresentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman\nlooked at the two curiously. \u201cOf course,\u201d said the umbrella man\u2014\u201cthat is\u2014well, you know how these\nmistakes occur\u2014I\u2014if it\u2019s your umbrella I hope you\u2019ll excuse me\u2014I picked\nit up this morning in a restaurant\u2014If you recognise it as yours, why\u2014I\nhope you\u2019ll\u2014\u201d \u201cOf course it\u2019s mine,\u201d said Soapy, viciously. The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall\nblonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car\nthat was approaching two blocks away. Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He\nhurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against\nthe men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall\ninto their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do\nno wrong. At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the\nglitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward\nMadison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is\na park bench.", "words": 277}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was\nan old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one\nviolet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the\norganist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the\ncoming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy\u2019s ears sweet\nmusic that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of\nthe iron fence. The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were\nfew; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves\u2014for a little while the\nscene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the\norganist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it\nwell in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and\nroses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars. The conjunction of Soapy\u2019s receptive state of mind and the influences\nabout the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul.\nHe viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the\ndegraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base\nmotives that made up his existence.", "words": 193}, {"story": 53, "title": "THE COP AND THE ANTHEM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel\nmood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his\ndesperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a\nman of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken\npossession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he\nwould resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without\nfaltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution\nin him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and\nfind work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He\nwould find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody\nin the world. He would\u2014 Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the\nbroad face of a policeman. \u201cWhat are you doin\u2019 here?\u201d asked the officer. \u201cNothin\u2019,\u201d said Soapy. \u201cThen come along,\u201d said the policeman. \u201cThree months on the Island,\u201d said the Magistrate in the Police Court\nthe next morning.", "words": 179}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "In an art exhibition the other day I saw a painting that had been sold\nfor $5,000. The painter was a young scrub out of the West named Kraft,\nwho had a favourite food and a pet theory. His pabulum was an\nunquenchable belief in the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature. His\ntheory was fixed around corned-beef hash with poached egg. There was a\nstory behind the picture, so I went home and let it drip out of a\nfountain-pen. The idea of Kraft\u2014but that is not the beginning of the\nstory. Three years ago Kraft, Bill Judkins (a poet), and I took our meals at\nCypher\u2019s, on Eighth Avenue. I say \u201ctook.\u201d When we had money, Cypher got\nit \u201coff of\u201d us, as he expressed it. We had no credit; we went in,\ncalled for food and ate it. We paid or we did not pay. We had\nconfidence in Cypher\u2019s sullenness and smouldering ferocity. Deep down\nin his sunless soul he was either a prince, a fool or an artist. He sat\nat a worm-eaten desk, covered with files of waiters\u2019 checks so old that\nI was sure the bottomest one was for clams that Hendrik Hudson had\neaten and paid for. Cypher had the power, in common with Napoleon III.\nand the goggle-eyed perch, of throwing a film over his eyes, rendering\nopaque the windows of his soul. Once when we left him unpaid, with\negregious excuses, I looked back and saw him shaking with inaudible\nlaughter behind his film. Now and then we paid up back scores.", "words": 261}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But the chief thing at Cypher\u2019s was Milly. Milly was a waitress. She\nwas a grand example of Kraft\u2019s theory of the artistic adjustment of\nnature. She belonged, largely, to waiting, as Minerva did to the art of\nscrapping, or Venus to the science of serious flirtation. Pedestalled\nand in bronze she might have stood with the noblest of her heroic\nsisters as \u201cLiver-and-Bacon Enlivening the World.\u201d She belonged to\nCypher\u2019s. You expected to see her colossal figure loom through that\nreeking blue cloud of smoke from frying fat just as you expect the\nPalisades to appear through a drifting Hudson River fog. There amid the\nsteam of vegetables and the vapours of acres of \u201cham and,\u201d the crash of\ncrockery, the clatter of steel, the screaming of \u201cshort orders,\u201d the\ncries of the hungering and all the horrid tumult of feeding man,\nsurrounded by swarms of the buzzing winged beasts bequeathed us by\nPharaoh, Milly steered her magnificent way like some great liner\ncleaving among the canoes of howling savages.", "words": 171}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Our Goddess of Grub was built on lines so majestic that they could be\nfollowed only with awe. Her sleeves were always rolled above her\nelbows. She could have taken us three musketeers in her two hands and\ndropped us out of the window. She had seen fewer years than any of us,\nbut she was of such superb Evehood and simplicity that she mothered us\nfrom the beginning. Cypher\u2019s store of eatables she poured out upon us\nwith royal indifference to price and quantity, as from a cornucopia\nthat knew no exhaustion. Her voice rang like a great silver bell; her\nsmile was many-toothed and frequent; she seemed like a yellow sunrise\non mountain tops. I never saw her but I thought of the Yosemite. And\nyet, somehow, I could never think of her as existing outside of\nCypher\u2019s. There nature had placed her, and she had taken root and grown\nmightily. She seemed happy, and took her few poor dollars on Saturday\nnights with the flushed pleasure of a child that receives an unexpected\ndonation. It was Kraft who first voiced the fear that each of us must have held\nlatently. It came up apropos, of course, of certain questions of art at\nwhich we were hammering. One of us compared the harmony existing\nbetween a Haydn symphony and pistache ice cream to the exquisite\ncongruity between Milly and Cypher\u2019s. \u201cThere is a certain fate hanging over Milly,\u201d said Kraft, \u201cand if it\novertakes her she is lost to Cypher\u2019s and to us.\u201d \u201cShe will grow fat?\u201d asked Judkins, fearsomely. \u201cShe will go to night school and become refined?\u201d I ventured anxiously.", "words": 274}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt is this,\u201d said Kraft, punctuating in a puddle of spilled coffee\nwith a stiff forefinger. \u201cCaesar had his Brutus\u2014the cotton has its\nbollworm, the chorus girl has her Pittsburger, the summer boarder has\nhis poison ivy, the hero has his Carnegie medal, art has its Morgan,\nthe rose has its\u2014\u201d \u201cSpeak,\u201d I interrupted, much perturbed. \u201cYou do not think that Milly\nwill begin to lace?\u201d \u201cOne day,\u201d concluded Kraft, solemnly, \u201cthere will come to Cypher\u2019s for\na plate of beans a millionaire lumberman from Wisconsin, and he will\nmarry Milly.\u201d \u201cNever!\u201d exclaimed Judkins and I, in horror. \u201cA lumberman,\u201d repeated Kraft, hoarsely. \u201cAnd a millionaire lumberman!\u201d I sighed, despairingly. \u201cFrom Wisconsin!\u201d groaned Judkins. We agreed that the awful fate seemed to menace her. Few things were\nless improbable. Milly, like some vast virgin stretch of pine woods,\nwas made to catch the lumberman\u2019s eye. And well we knew the habits of\nthe Badgers, once fortune smiled upon them. Straight to New York they\nhie, and lay their goods at the feet of the girl who serves them beans\nin a beanery. Why, the alphabet itself connives. The Sunday newspaper\u2019s\nheadliner\u2019s work is cut for him. \u201cWinsome Waitress Wins Wealthy Wisconsin Woodsman.\u201d For a while we felt that Milly was on the verge of being lost to us. It was our love of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of Nature that\ninspired us. We could not give her over to a lumberman, doubly accursed\nby wealth and provincialism. We shuddered to think of Milly, with her\nvoice modulated and her elbows covered, pouring tea in the marble\nteepee of a tree murderer. No! In Cypher\u2019s she belonged\u2014in the bacon\nsmoke, the cabbage perfume, the grand, Wagnerian chorus of hurled\nironstone china and rattling casters.", "words": 293}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Our fears must have been prophetic, for on that same evening the\nwildwood discharged upon us Milly\u2019s preordained confiscator\u2014our fee to\nadjustment and order. But Alaska and not Wisconsin bore the burden of\nthe visitation. We were at our supper of beef stew and dried apples when he trotted in\nas if on the heels of a dog team, and made one of the mess at our\ntable. With the freedom of the camps he assaulted our ears and claimed\nthe fellowship of men lost in the wilds of a hash house. We embraced\nhim as a specimen, and in three minutes we had all but died for one\nanother as friends. He was rugged and bearded and wind-dried. He had just come off the\n\u201ctrail,\u201d he said, at one of the North River ferries. I fancied I could\nsee the snow dust of Chilcoot yet powdering his shoulders. And then he\nstrewed the table with the nuggets, stuffed ptarmigans, bead work and\nseal pelts of the returned Klondiker, and began to prate to us of his\nmillions. \u201cBank drafts for two millions,\u201d was his summing up, \u201cand a thousand a\nday piling up from my claims. And now I want some beef stew and canned\npeaches. I never got off the train since I mushed out of Seattle, and\nI\u2019m hungry. The stuff the niggers feed you on Pullmans don\u2019t count. You\ngentlemen order what you want.\u201d And then Milly loomed up with a thousand dishes on her bare arm\u2014loomed\nup big and white and pink and awful as Mount Saint Elias\u2014with a smile\nlike day breaking in a gulch. And the Klondiker threw down his pelts\nand nuggets as dross, and let his jaw fall half-way, and stared at her.\nYou could almost see the diamond tiaras on Milly\u2019s brow and the\nhand-embroidered silk Paris gowns that he meant to buy for her.", "words": 315}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At last the bollworm had attacked the cotton\u2014the poison ivy was\nreaching out its tendrils to entwine the summer boarder\u2014the millionaire\nlumberman, thinly disguised as the Alaskan miner, was about to engulf\nour Milly and upset Nature\u2019s adjustment. Kraft was the first to act. He leaped up and pounded the Klondiker\u2019s\nback. \u201cCome out and drink,\u201d he shouted. \u201cDrink first and eat\nafterward.\u201d Judkins seized one arm and I the other. Gaily, roaringly,\nirresistibly, in jolly-good-fellow style, we dragged him from the\nrestaurant to a caf\u00e9, stuffing his pockets with his embalmed birds and\nindigestible nuggets. There he rumbled a roughly good-humoured protest. \u201cThat\u2019s the girl for\nmy money,\u201d he declared. \u201cShe can eat out of my skillet the rest of her\nlife. Why, I never see such a fine girl. I\u2019m going back there and ask\nher to marry me. I guess she won\u2019t want to sling hash any more when she\nsees the pile of dust I\u2019ve got.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll take another whiskey and milk now,\u201d Kraft persuaded, with\nSatan\u2019s smile. \u201cI thought you up-country fellows were better sports.\u201d Kraft spent his puny store of coin at the bar and then gave Judkins and\nme such an appealing look that we went down to the last dime we had in\ntoasting our guest. Then, when our ammunition was gone and the Klondiker, still somewhat\nsober, began to babble again of Milly, Kraft whispered into his ear\nsuch a polite, barbed insult relating to people who were miserly with\ntheir funds, that the miner crashed down handful after handful of\nsilver and notes, calling for all the fluids in the world to drown the\nimputation. Thus the work was accomplished. With his own guns we drove him from the\nfield. And then we had him carted to a distant small hotel and put to\nbed with his nuggets and baby seal-skins stuffed around him.", "words": 314}, {"story": 54, "title": "AN ADJUSTMENT OF NATURE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cHe will never find Cypher\u2019s again,\u201d said Kraft. \u201cHe will propose to\nthe first white apron he sees in a dairy restaurant to-morrow. And\nMilly\u2014I mean the Natural Adjustment\u2014is saved!\u201d And back to Cypher\u2019s went we three, and, finding customers scarce, we\njoined hands and did an Indian dance with Milly in the centre. This, I say, happened three years ago. And about that time a little\nluck descended upon us three, and we were enabled to buy costlier and\nless wholesome food than Cypher\u2019s. Our paths separated, and I saw Kraft\nno more and Judkins seldom. But, as I said, I saw a painting the other day that was sold for\n$5,000. The title was \u201cBoadicea,\u201d and the figure seemed to fill all\nout-of-doors. But of all the picture\u2019s admirers who stood before it, I\nbelieve I was the only one who longed for Boadicea to stalk from her\nframe, bringing me corned-beef hash with poached egg. I hurried away to see Kraft. His satanic eyes were the same, his hair\nwas worse tangled, but his clothes had been made by a tailor. \u201cI didn\u2019t know,\u201d I said to him. \u201cWe\u2019ve bought a cottage in the Bronx with the money,\u201d said he. \u201cAny\nevening at 7.\u201d \u201cThen,\u201d said I, \u201cwhen you led us against the lumberman\u2014the\u2014Klondiker\u2014it\nwasn\u2019t altogether on account of the Unerring Artistic Adjustment of\nNature?\u201d \u201cWell, not altogether,\u201d said Kraft, with a grin.", "words": 236}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "I don\u2019t suppose it will knock any of you people off your perch to read\na contribution from an animal. Mr. Kipling and a good many others have\ndemonstrated the fact that animals can express themselves in\nremunerative English, and no magazine goes to press nowadays without an\nanimal story in it, except the old-style monthlies that are still\nrunning pictures of Bryan and the Mont P\u00e9lee horror. But you needn\u2019t look for any stuck-up literature in my piece, such as\nBearoo, the bear, and Snakoo, the snake, and Tammanoo, the tiger, talk\nin the jungle books. A yellow dog that\u2019s spent most of his life in a\ncheap New York flat, sleeping in a corner on an old sateen underskirt\n(the one she spilled port wine on at the Lady Longshoremen\u2019s banquet),\nmustn\u2019t be expected to perform any tricks with the art of speech. I was born a yellow pup; date, locality, pedigree and weight unknown.\nThe first thing I can recollect, an old woman had me in a basket at\nBroadway and Twenty-third trying to sell me to a fat lady. Old Mother\nHubbard was boosting me to beat the band as a genuine\nPomeranian-Hambletonian-Red-Irish-Cochin-China-Stoke-Pogis fox terrier.\nThe fat lady chased a V around among the samples of gros grain\nflannelette in her shopping bag till she cornered it, and gave up. From\nthat moment I was a pet\u2014a mamma\u2019s own wootsey squidlums. Say, gentle\nreader, did you ever have a 200-pound woman breathing a flavour of\nCamembert cheese and Peau d\u2019Espagne pick you up and wallop her nose all\nover you, remarking all the time in an Emma Eames tone of voice: \u201cOh,\noo\u2019s um oodlum, doodlum, woodlum, toodlum, bitsy-witsy skoodlums?\u201d", "words": 284}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "From a pedigreed yellow pup I grew up to be an anonymous yellow cur\nlooking like a cross between an Angora cat and a box of lemons. But my\nmistress never tumbled. She thought that the two primeval pups that\nNoah chased into the ark were but a collateral branch of my ancestors.\nIt took two policemen to keep her from entering me at the Madison\nSquare Garden for the Siberian bloodhound prize. I\u2019ll tell you about that flat. The house was the ordinary thing in New\nYork, paved with Parian marble in the entrance hall and cobblestones\nabove the first floor. Our flat was three\u2014well, not flights\u2014climbs up.\nMy mistress rented it unfurnished, and put in the regular things\u20141903\nantique unholstered parlour set, oil chromo of geishas in a Harlem tea\nhouse, rubber plant and husband. By Sirius! there was a biped I felt sorry for. He was a little man with\nsandy hair and whiskers a good deal like mine. Henpecked?\u2014well, toucans\nand flamingoes and pelicans all had their bills in him. He wiped the\ndishes and listened to my mistress tell about the cheap, ragged things\nthe lady with the squirrel-skin coat on the second floor hung out on\nher line to dry. And every evening while she was getting supper she\nmade him take me out on the end of a string for a walk.", "words": 229}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "If men knew how women pass the time when they are alone they\u2019d never\nmarry. Laura Lean Jibbey, peanut brittle, a little almond cream on the\nneck muscles, dishes unwashed, half an hour\u2019s talk with the iceman,\nreading a package of old letters, a couple of pickles and two bottles\nof malt extract, one hour peeking through a hole in the window shade\ninto the flat across the air-shaft\u2014that\u2019s about all there is to it.\nTwenty minutes before time for him to come home from work she\nstraightens up the house, fixes her rat so it won\u2019t show, and gets out\na lot of sewing for a ten-minute bluff. I led a dog\u2019s life in that flat. \u2018Most all day I lay there in my corner\nwatching that fat woman kill time. I slept sometimes and had pipe\ndreams about being out chasing cats into basements and growling at old\nladies with black mittens, as a dog was intended to do. Then she would\npounce upon me with a lot of that drivelling poodle palaver and kiss me\non the nose\u2014but what could I do? A dog can\u2019t chew cloves. I began to feel sorry for Hubby, dog my cats if I didn\u2019t. We looked so\nmuch alike that people noticed it when we went out; so we shook the\nstreets that Morgan\u2019s cab drives down, and took to climbing the piles\nof last December\u2019s snow on the streets where cheap people live. One evening when we were thus promenading, and I was trying to look\nlike a prize St. Bernard, and the old man was trying to look like he\nwouldn\u2019t have murdered the first organ-grinder he heard play\nMendelssohn\u2019s wedding-march, I looked up at him and said, in my way:", "words": 292}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhat are you looking so sour about, you oakum trimmed lobster? She\ndon\u2019t kiss you. You don\u2019t have to sit on her lap and listen to talk\nthat would make the book of a musical comedy sound like the maxims of\nEpictetus. You ought to be thankful you\u2019re not a dog. Brace up,\nBenedick, and bid the blues begone.\u201d The matrimonial mishap looked down at me with almost canine\nintelligence in his face. \u201cWhy, doggie,\u201d says he, \u201cgood doggie. You almost look like you could\nspeak. What is it, doggie\u2014Cats?\u201d Cats! Could speak! But, of course, he couldn\u2019t understand. Humans were denied the speech\nof animals. The only common ground of communication upon which dogs and\nmen can get together is in fiction. In the flat across the hall from us lived a lady with a black-and-tan\nterrier. Her husband strung it and took it out every evening, but he\nalways came home cheerful and whistling. One day I touched noses with\nthe black-and-tan in the hall, and I struck him for an elucidation. \u201cSee, here, Wiggle-and-Skip,\u201d I says, \u201cyou know that it ain\u2019t the\nnature of a real man to play dry nurse to a dog in public. I never saw\none leashed to a bow-wow yet that didn\u2019t look like he\u2019d like to lick\nevery other man that looked at him. But your boss comes in every day as\nperky and set up as an amateur prestidigitator doing the egg trick. How\ndoes he do it? Don\u2019t tell me he likes it.\u201d", "words": 254}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cHim?\u201d says the black-and-tan. \u201cWhy, he uses Nature\u2019s Own Remedy. He\ngets spifflicated. At first when we go out he\u2019s as shy as the man on\nthe steamer who would rather play pedro when they make \u2019em all\njackpots. By the time we\u2019ve been in eight saloons he don\u2019t care whether\nthe thing on the end of his line is a dog or a catfish. I\u2019ve lost two\ninches of my tail trying to sidestep those swinging doors.\u201d The pointer I got from that terrier\u2014vaudeville please copy\u2014set me to\nthinking. One evening about 6 o\u2019clock my mistress ordered him to get busy and do\nthe ozone act for Lovey. I have concealed it until now, but that is\nwhat she called me. The black-and-tan was called \u201cTweetness.\u201d I\nconsider that I have the bulge on him as far as you could chase a\nrabbit. Still \u201cLovey\u201d is something of a nomenclatural tin can on the\ntail of one\u2019s self respect. At a quiet place on a safe street I tightened the line of my custodian\nin front of an attractive, refined saloon. I made a dead-ahead scramble\nfor the doors, whining like a dog in the press despatches that lets the\nfamily know that little Alice is bogged while gathering lilies in the\nbrook. \u201cWhy, darn my eyes,\u201d says the old man, with a grin; \u201cdarn my eyes if\nthe saffron-coloured son of a seltzer lemonade ain\u2019t asking me in to\ntake a drink. Lemme see\u2014how long\u2019s it been since I saved shoe leather\nby keeping one foot on the foot-rest? I believe I\u2019ll\u2014\u201d", "words": 264}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "I knew I had him. Hot Scotches he took, sitting at a table. For an hour\nhe kept the Campbells coming. I sat by his side rapping for the waiter\nwith my tail, and eating free lunch such as mamma in her flat never\nequalled with her homemade truck bought at a delicatessen store eight\nminutes before papa comes home. When the products of Scotland were all exhausted except the rye bread\nthe old man unwound me from the table leg and played me outside like a\nfisherman plays a salmon. Out there he took off my collar and threw it\ninto the street. \u201cPoor doggie,\u201d says he; \u201cgood doggie. She shan\u2019t kiss you any more. \u2019S\na darned shame. Good doggie, go away and get run over by a street car\nand be happy.\u201d I refused to leave. I leaped and frisked around the old man\u2019s legs\nhappy as a pug on a rug. \u201cYou old flea-headed woodchuck-chaser,\u201d I said to him\u2014\u201cyou moon-baying,\nrabbit-pointing, egg-stealing old beagle, can\u2019t you see that I don\u2019t\nwant to leave you? Can\u2019t you see that we\u2019re both Pups in the Wood and\nthe missis is the cruel uncle after you with the dish towel and me with\nthe flea liniment and a pink bow to tie on my tail. Why not cut that\nall out and be pards forever more?\u201d Maybe you\u2019ll say he didn\u2019t understand\u2014maybe he didn\u2019t. But he kind of\ngot a grip on the Hot Scotches, and stood still for a minute, thinking. \u201cDoggie,\u201d says he, finally, \u201cwe don\u2019t live more than a dozen lives on\nthis earth, and very few of us live to be more than 300. If I ever see\nthat flat any more I\u2019m a flat, and if you do you\u2019re flatter; and that\u2019s\nno flattery. I\u2019m offering 60 to 1 that Westward Ho wins out by the\nlength of a dachshund.\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 55, "title": "MEMOIRS OF A YELLOW DOG", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "There was no string, but I frolicked along with my master to the\nTwenty-third street ferry. And the cats on the route saw reason to give\nthanks that prehensile claws had been given them. On the Jersey side my master said to a stranger who stood eating a\ncurrant bun: \u201cMe and my doggie, we are bound for the Rocky Mountains.\u201d But what pleased me most was when my old man pulled both of my ears\nuntil I howled, and said:\n\u201cYou common, monkey-headed, rat-tailed, sulphur-coloured son of a door\nmat, do you know what I\u2019m going to call you?\u201d I thought of \u201cLovey,\u201d and I whined dolefully. \u201cI\u2019m going to call you \u2018Pete,\u2019\u201d says my master; and if I\u2019d had five\ntails I couldn\u2019t have done enough wagging to do justice to the\noccasion.", "words": 135}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The Blue Light Drug Store is downtown, between the Bowery and First\nAvenue, where the distance between the two streets is the shortest. The\nBlue Light does not consider that pharmacy is a thing of bric-a-brac,\nscent and ice-cream soda. If you ask it for pain-killer it will not\ngive you a bonbon. The Blue Light scorns the labour-saving arts of modern pharmacy. It\nmacerates its opium and percolates its own laudanum and paregoric. To\nthis day pills are made behind its tall prescription desk\u2014pills rolled\nout on its own pill-tile, divided with a spatula, rolled with the\nfinger and thumb, dusted with calcined magnesia and delivered in little\nround pasteboard pill-boxes. The store is on a corner about which\ncoveys of ragged-plumed, hilarious children play and become candidates\nfor the cough drops and soothing syrups that wait for them inside. Ikey Schoenstein was the night clerk of the Blue Light and the friend\nof his customers. Thus it is on the East Side, where the heart of\npharmacy is not glac\u00e9. There, as it should be, the druggist is a\ncounsellor, a confessor, an adviser, an able and willing missionary and\nmentor whose learning is respected, whose occult wisdom is venerated\nand whose medicine is often poured, untasted, into the gutter.\nTherefore Ikey\u2019s corniform, be-spectacled nose and narrow,\nknowledge-bowed figure was well known in the vicinity of the Blue\nLight, and his advice and notice were much desired.", "words": 239}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Ikey roomed and breakfasted at Mrs. Riddle\u2019s two squares away. Mrs.\nRiddle had a daughter named Rosy. The circumlocution has been in\nvain\u2014you must have guessed it\u2014Ikey adored Rosy. She tinctured all his\nthoughts; she was the compound extract of all that was chemically pure\nand officinal\u2014the dispensatory contained nothing equal to her. But Ikey\nwas timid, and his hopes remained insoluble in the menstruum of his\nbackwardness and fears. Behind his counter he was a superior being,\ncalmly conscious of special knowledge and worth; outside he was a\nweak-kneed, purblind, motorman-cursed rambler, with ill-fitting clothes\nstained with chemicals and smelling of socotrine aloes and valerianate\nof ammonia. The fly in Ikey\u2019s ointment (thrice welcome, pat trope!) was Chunk\nMcGowan. Mr. McGowan was also striving to catch the bright smiles tossed about\nby Rosy. But he was no outfielder as Ikey was; he picked them off the\nbat. At the same time he was Ikey\u2019s friend and customer, and often\ndropped in at the Blue Light Drug Store to have a bruise painted with\niodine or get a cut rubber-plastered after a pleasant evening spent\nalong the Bowery. One afternoon McGowan drifted in in his silent, easy way, and sat,\ncomely, smooth-faced, hard, indomitable, good-natured, upon a stool. \u201cIkey,\u201d said he, when his friend had fetched his mortar and sat\nopposite, grinding gum benzoin to a powder, \u201cget busy with your ear.\nIt\u2019s drugs for me if you\u2019ve got the line I need.\u201d Ikey scanned the countenance of Mr. McGowan for the usual evidences of\nconflict, but found none. \u201cTake your coat off,\u201d he ordered. \u201cI guess already that you have been\nstuck in the ribs with a knife. I have many times told you those Dagoes\nwould do you up.\u201d", "words": 291}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Mr. McGowan smiled. \u201cNot them,\u201d he said. \u201cNot any Dagoes. But you\u2019ve\nlocated the diagnosis all right enough\u2014it\u2019s under my coat, near the\nribs. Say! Ikey\u2014Rosy and me are goin\u2019 to run away and get married\nto-night.\u201d Ikey\u2019s left forefinger was doubled over the edge of the mortar, holding\nit steady. He gave it a wild rap with the pestle, but felt it not.\nMeanwhile Mr. McGowan\u2019s smile faded to a look of perplexed gloom. \u201cThat is,\u201d he continued, \u201cif she keeps in the notion until the time\ncomes. We\u2019ve been layin\u2019 pipes for the getaway for two weeks. One day\nshe says she will; the same evenin\u2019 she says nixy. We\u2019ve agreed on\nto-night, and Rosy\u2019s stuck to the affirmative this time for two whole\ndays. But it\u2019s five hours yet till the time, and I\u2019m afraid she\u2019ll\nstand me up when it comes to the scratch.\u201d \u201cYou said you wanted drugs,\u201d remarked Ikey. Mr. McGowan looked ill at ease and harassed\u2014a condition opposed to his\nusual line of demeanour. He made a patent-medicine almanac into a roll\nand fitted it with unprofitable carefulness about his finger. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t have this double handicap make a false start to-night for a\nmillion,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve got a little flat up in Harlem all ready, with\nchrysanthemums on the table and a kettle ready to boil. And I\u2019ve\nengaged a pulpit pounder to be ready at his house for us at 9.30. It\u2019s\ngot to come off. And if Rosy don\u2019t change her mind again!\u201d\u2014Mr. McGowan\nceased, a prey to his doubts. \u201cI don\u2019t see then yet,\u201d said Ikey, shortly, \u201cwhat makes it that you\ntalk of drugs, or what I can be doing about it.\u201d", "words": 285}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cOld man Riddle don\u2019t like me a little bit,\u201d went on the uneasy suitor,\nbent upon marshalling his arguments. \u201cFor a week he hasn\u2019t let Rosy\nstep outside the door with me. If it wasn\u2019t for losin\u2019 a boarder they\u2019d\nhave bounced me long ago. I\u2019m makin\u2019 $20 a week and she\u2019ll never regret\nflyin\u2019 the coop with Chunk McGowan.\u201d \u201cYou will excuse me, Chunk,\u201d said Ikey. \u201cI must make a prescription\nthat is to be called for soon.\u201d \u201cSay,\u201d said McGowan, looking up suddenly, \u201csay, Ikey, ain\u2019t there a\ndrug of some kind\u2014some kind of powders that\u2019ll make a girl like you\nbetter if you give \u2019em to her?\u201d Ikey\u2019s lip beneath his nose curled with the scorn of superior\nenlightenment; but before he could answer, McGowan continued: \u201cTim Lacy told me he got some once from a croaker uptown and fed \u2019em to\nhis girl in soda water. From the very first dose he was ace-high and\neverybody else looked like thirty cents to her. They was married in\nless than two weeks.\u201d Strong and simple was Chunk McGowan. A better reader of men than Ikey\nwas could have seen that his tough frame was strung upon fine wires.\nLike a good general who was about to invade the enemy\u2019s territory he\nwas seeking to guard every point against possible failure. \u201cI thought,\u201d went on Chunk hopefully, \u201cthat if I had one of them\npowders to give Rosy when I see her at supper to-night it might brace\nher up and keep her from reneging on the proposition to skip. I guess\nshe don\u2019t need a mule team to drag her away, but women are better at\ncoaching than they are at running bases. If the stuff\u2019ll work just for\na couple of hours it\u2019ll do the trick.\u201d \u201cWhen is this foolishness of running away to be happening?\u201d asked Ikey.", "words": 312}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cNine o\u2019clock,\u201d said Mr. McGowan. \u201cSupper\u2019s at seven. At eight Rosy\ngoes to bed with a headache. At nine old Parvenzano lets me through to\nhis back yard, where there\u2019s a board off Riddle\u2019s fence, next door. I\ngo under her window and help her down the fire-escape. We\u2019ve got to\nmake it early on the preacher\u2019s account. It\u2019s all dead easy if Rosy\ndon\u2019t balk when the flag drops. Can you fix me one of them powders,\nIkey?\u201d Ikey Schoenstein rubbed his nose slowly. \u201cChunk,\u201d said he, \u201cit is of drugs of that nature that pharmaceutists\nmust have much carefulness. To you alone of my acquaintance would I\nintrust a powder like that. But for you I shall make it, and you shall\nsee how it makes Rosy to think of you.\u201d Ikey went behind the prescription desk. There he crushed to a powder\ntwo soluble tablets, each containing a quarter of a grain of morphia.\nTo them he added a little sugar of milk to increase the bulk, and\nfolded the mixture neatly in a white paper. Taken by an adult this\npowder would insure several hours of heavy slumber without danger to\nthe sleeper. This he handed to Chunk McGowan, telling him to administer\nit in a liquid if possible, and received the hearty thanks of the\nbackyard Lochinvar. The subtlety of Ikey\u2019s action becomes apparent upon recital of his\nsubsequent move. He sent a messenger for Mr. Riddle and disclosed the\nplans of Mr. McGowan for eloping with Rosy. Mr. Riddle was a stout man,\nbrick-dusty of complexion and sudden in action. \u201cMuch obliged,\u201d he said, briefly, to Ikey. \u201cThe lazy Irish loafer! My\nown room\u2019s just above Rosy\u2019s. I\u2019ll just go up there myself after supper\nand load the shot-gun and wait. If he comes in my back yard he\u2019ll go\naway in a ambulance instead of a bridal chaise.\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 56, "title": "THE LOVE-PHILTRE OF IKEY SCHOENSTEIN", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "With Rosy held in the clutches of Morpheus for a many-hours deep\nslumber, and the bloodthirsty parent waiting, armed and forewarned,\nIkey felt that his rival was close, indeed, upon discomfiture. All night in the Blue Light Drug Store he waited at his duties for\nchance news of the tragedy, but none came. At eight o\u2019clock in the morning the day clerk arrived and Ikey started\nhurriedly for Mrs. Riddle\u2019s to learn the outcome. And, lo! as he\nstepped out of the store who but Chunk McGowan sprang from a passing\nstreet car and grasped his hand\u2014Chunk McGowan with a victor\u2019s smile and\nflushed with joy. \u201cPulled it off,\u201d said Chunk with Elysium in his grin. \u201cRosy hit the\nfire-escape on time to a second, and we was under the wire at the\nReverend\u2019s at 9.30\u00bc. She\u2019s up at the flat\u2014she cooked eggs this mornin\u2019\nin a blue kimono\u2014Lord! how lucky I am! You must pace up some day, Ikey,\nand feed with us. I\u2019ve got a job down near the bridge, and that\u2019s where\nI\u2019m heading for now.\u201d \u201cThe\u2014the\u2014powder?\u201d stammered Ikey. \u201cOh, that stuff you gave me!\u201d said Chunk, broadening his grin; \u201cwell,\nit was this way. I sat down at the supper table last night at Riddle\u2019s,\nand I looked at Rosy, and I says to myself, \u2018Chunk, if you get the girl\nget her on the square\u2014don\u2019t try any hocus-pocus with a thoroughbred\nlike her.\u2019 And I keeps the paper you give me in my pocket. And then my\nlamps fall on another party present, who, I says to myself, is failin\u2019\nin a proper affection toward his comin\u2019 son-in-law, so I watches my\nchance and dumps that powder in old man Riddle\u2019s coffee\u2014see?\u201d", "words": 287}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Old Anthony Rockwall, retired manufacturer and proprietor of Rockwall\u2019s\nEureka Soap, looked out the library window of his Fifth Avenue mansion\nand grinned. His neighbour to the right\u2014the aristocratic clubman, G.\nVan Schuylight Suffolk-Jones\u2014came out to his waiting motor-car,\nwrinkling a contumelious nostril, as usual, at the Italian renaissance\nsculpture of the soap palace\u2019s front elevation. \u201cStuck-up old statuette of nothing doing!\u201d commented the ex-Soap King.\n\u201cThe Eden Musee\u2019ll get that old frozen Nesselrode yet if he don\u2019t watch\nout. I\u2019ll have this house painted red, white, and blue next summer and\nsee if that\u2019ll make his Dutch nose turn up any higher.\u201d And then Anthony Rockwall, who never cared for bells, went to the door\nof his library and shouted \u201cMike!\u201d in the same voice that had once\nchipped off pieces of the welkin on the Kansas prairies. \u201cTell my son,\u201d said Anthony to the answering menial, \u201cto come in here\nbefore he leaves the house.\u201d When young Rockwall entered the library the old man laid aside his\nnewspaper, looked at him with a kindly grimness on his big, smooth,\nruddy countenance, rumpled his mop of white hair with one hand and\nrattled the keys in his pocket with the other. \u201cRichard,\u201d said Anthony Rockwall, \u201cwhat do you pay for the soap that\nyou use?\u201d Richard, only six months home from college, was startled a little. He\nhad not yet taken the measure of this sire of his, who was as full of\nunexpectednesses as a girl at her first party. \u201cSix dollars a dozen, I think, dad.\u201d \u201cAnd your clothes?\u201d \u201cI suppose about sixty dollars, as a rule.\u201d", "words": 270}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou\u2019re a gentleman,\u201d said Anthony, decidedly. \u201cI\u2019ve heard of these\nyoung bloods spending $24 a dozen for soap, and going over the hundred\nmark for clothes. You\u2019ve got as much money to waste as any of \u2019em, and\nyet you stick to what\u2019s decent and moderate. Now I use the old\nEureka\u2014not only for sentiment, but it\u2019s the purest soap made. Whenever\nyou pay more than 10 cents a cake for soap you buy bad perfumes and\nlabels. But 50 cents is doing very well for a young man in your\ngeneration, position and condition. As I said, you\u2019re a gentleman. They\nsay it takes three generations to make one. They\u2019re off. Money\u2019ll do it\nas slick as soap grease. It\u2019s made you one. By hokey! it\u2019s almost made\none of me. I\u2019m nearly as impolite and disagreeable and ill-mannered as\nthese two old Knickerbocker gents on each side of me that can\u2019t sleep\nof nights because I bought in between \u2019em.\u201d \u201cThere are some things that money can\u2019t accomplish,\u201d remarked young\nRockwall, rather gloomily. \u201cNow, don\u2019t say that,\u201d said old Anthony, shocked. \u201cI bet my money on\nmoney every time. I\u2019ve been through the encyclopaedia down to Y looking\nfor something you can\u2019t buy with it; and I expect to have to take up\nthe appendix next week. I\u2019m for money against the field. Tell me\nsomething money won\u2019t buy.\u201d \u201cFor one thing,\u201d answered Richard, rankling a little, \u201cit won\u2019t buy one\ninto the exclusive circles of society.\u201d \u201cOho! won\u2019t it?\u201d thundered the champion of the root of evil. \u201cYou tell\nme where your exclusive circles would be if the first Astor hadn\u2019t had\nthe money to pay for his steerage passage over?\u201d Richard sighed.", "words": 286}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cAnd that\u2019s what I was coming to,\u201d said the old man, less boisterously.\n\u201cThat\u2019s why I asked you to come in. There\u2019s something going wrong with\nyou, boy. I\u2019ve been noticing it for two weeks. Out with it. I guess I\ncould lay my hands on eleven millions within twenty-four hours, besides\nthe real estate. If it\u2019s your liver, there\u2019s the _Rambler_ down in the\nbay, coaled, and ready to steam down to the Bahamas in two days.\u201d \u201cNot a bad guess, dad; you haven\u2019t missed it far.\u201d \u201cAh,\u201d said Anthony, keenly; \u201cwhat\u2019s her name?\u201d Richard began to walk up and down the library floor. There was enough\ncomradeship and sympathy in this crude old father of his to draw his\nconfidence. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you ask her?\u201d demanded old Anthony. \u201cShe\u2019ll jump at you.\nYou\u2019ve got the money and the looks, and you\u2019re a decent boy. Your hands\nare clean. You\u2019ve got no Eureka soap on \u2019em. You\u2019ve been to college,\nbut she\u2019ll overlook that.\u201d \u201cI haven\u2019t had a chance,\u201d said Richard. \u201cMake one,\u201d said Anthony. \u201cTake her for a walk in the park, or a straw\nride, or walk home with her from church. Chance! Pshaw!\u201d \u201cYou don\u2019t know the social mill, dad. She\u2019s part of the stream that\nturns it. Every hour and minute of her time is arranged for days in\nadvance. I must have that girl, dad, or this town is a blackjack swamp\nforevermore. And I can\u2019t write it\u2014I can\u2019t do that.\u201d \u201cTut!\u201d said the old man. \u201cDo you mean to tell me that with all the\nmoney I\u2019ve got you can\u2019t get an hour or two of a girl\u2019s time for\nyourself?\u201d", "words": 278}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve put it off too late. She\u2019s going to sail for Europe at noon day\nafter to-morrow for a two years\u2019 stay. I\u2019m to see her alone to-morrow\nevening for a few minutes. She\u2019s at Larchmont now at her aunt\u2019s. I\ncan\u2019t go there. But I\u2019m allowed to meet her with a cab at the Grand\nCentral Station to-morrow evening at the 8.30 train. We drive down\nBroadway to Wallack\u2019s at a gallop, where her mother and a box party\nwill be waiting for us in the lobby. Do you think she would listen to a\ndeclaration from me during that six or eight minutes under those\ncircumstances? No. And what chance would I have in the theatre or\nafterward? None. No, dad, this is one tangle that your money can\u2019t\nunravel. We can\u2019t buy one minute of time with cash; if we could, rich\npeople would live longer. There\u2019s no hope of getting a talk with Miss\nLantry before she sails.\u201d \u201cAll right, Richard, my boy,\u201d said old Anthony, cheerfully. \u201cYou may\nrun along down to your club now. I\u2019m glad it ain\u2019t your liver. But\ndon\u2019t forget to burn a few punk sticks in the joss house to the great\ngod Mazuma from time to time. You say money won\u2019t buy time? Well, of\ncourse, you can\u2019t order eternity wrapped up and delivered at your\nresidence for a price, but I\u2019ve seen Father Time get pretty bad stone\nbruises on his heels when he walked through the gold diggings.\u201d That night came Aunt Ellen, gentle, sentimental, wrinkled, sighing,\noppressed by wealth, in to Brother Anthony at his evening paper, and\nbegan discourse on the subject of lovers\u2019 woes.", "words": 280}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cHe told me all about it,\u201d said brother Anthony, yawning. \u201cI told him\nmy bank account was at his service. And then he began to knock money.\nSaid money couldn\u2019t help. Said the rules of society couldn\u2019t be bucked\nfor a yard by a team of ten-millionaires.\u201d \u201cOh, Anthony,\u201d sighed Aunt Ellen, \u201cI wish you would not think so much\nof money. Wealth is nothing where a true affection is concerned. Love\nis all-powerful. If he only had spoken earlier! She could not have\nrefused our Richard. But now I fear it is too late. He will have no\nopportunity to address her. All your gold cannot bring happiness to\nyour son.\u201d At eight o\u2019clock the next evening Aunt Ellen took a quaint old gold\nring from a moth-eaten case and gave it to Richard. \u201cWear it to-night, nephew,\u201d she begged. \u201cYour mother gave it to me.\nGood luck in love she said it brought. She asked me to give it to you\nwhen you had found the one you loved.\u201d Young Rockwall took the ring reverently and tried it on his smallest\nfinger. It slipped as far as the second joint and stopped. He took it\noff and stuffed it into his vest pocket, after the manner of man. And\nthen he \u2019phoned for his cab. At the station he captured Miss Lantry out of the gadding mob at eight\nthirty-two. \u201cWe mustn\u2019t keep mamma and the others waiting,\u201d said she. \u201cTo Wallack\u2019s Theatre as fast as you can drive!\u201d said Richard loyally. They whirled up Forty-second to Broadway, and then down the\nwhite-starred lane that leads from the soft meadows of sunset to the\nrocky hills of morning. At Thirty-fourth Street young Richard quickly thrust up the trap and\nordered the cabman to stop.", "words": 296}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve dropped a ring,\u201d he apologised, as he climbed out. \u201cIt was my\nmother\u2019s, and I\u2019d hate to lose it. I won\u2019t detain you a minute\u2014I saw\nwhere it fell.\u201d In less than a minute he was back in the cab with the ring. But within that minute a crosstown car had stopped directly in front of\nthe cab. The cabman tried to pass to the left, but a heavy express\nwagon cut him off. He tried the right, and had to back away from a\nfurniture van that had no business to be there. He tried to back out,\nbut dropped his reins and swore dutifully. He was blockaded in a\ntangled mess of vehicles and horses. One of those street blockades had occurred that sometimes tie up\ncommerce and movement quite suddenly in the big city. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you drive on?\u201d said Miss Lantry, impatiently. \u201cWe\u2019ll be\nlate.\u201d Richard stood up in the cab and looked around. He saw a congested flood\nof wagons, trucks, cabs, vans and street cars filling the vast space\nwhere Broadway, Sixth Avenue and Thirty-fourth street cross one another\nas a twenty-six inch maiden fills her twenty-two inch girdle. And still\nfrom all the cross streets they were hurrying and rattling toward the\nconverging point at full speed, and hurling themselves into the\nstruggling mass, locking wheels and adding their drivers\u2019 imprecations\nto the clamour. The entire traffic of Manhattan seemed to have jammed\nitself around them. The oldest New Yorker among the thousands of\nspectators that lined the sidewalks had not witnessed a street blockade\nof the proportions of this one. \u201cI\u2019m very sorry,\u201d said Richard, as he resumed his seat, \u201cbut it looks\nas if we are stuck. They won\u2019t get this jumble loosened up in an hour.\nIt was my fault. If I hadn\u2019t dropped the ring we\u2014\u201d", "words": 308}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cLet me see the ring,\u201d said Miss Lantry. \u201cNow that it can\u2019t be helped,\nI don\u2019t care. I think theatres are stupid, anyway.\u201d At 11 o\u2019clock that night somebody tapped lightly on Anthony Rockwall\u2019s\ndoor. \u201cCome in,\u201d shouted Anthony, who was in a red dressing-gown, reading a\nbook of piratical adventures. Somebody was Aunt Ellen, looking like a grey-haired angel that had been\nleft on earth by mistake. \u201cThey\u2019re engaged, Anthony,\u201d she said, softly. \u201cShe has promised to\nmarry our Richard. On their way to the theatre there was a street\nblockade, and it was two hours before their cab could get out of it. \u201cAnd oh, brother Anthony, don\u2019t ever boast of the power of money again.\nA little emblem of true love\u2014a little ring that symbolised unending and\nunmercenary affection\u2014was the cause of our Richard finding his\nhappiness. He dropped it in the street, and got out to recover it. And\nbefore they could continue the blockade occurred. He spoke to his love\nand won her there while the cab was hemmed in. Money is dross compared\nwith true love, Anthony.\u201d \u201cAll right,\u201d said old Anthony. \u201cI\u2019m glad the boy has got what he\nwanted. I told him I wouldn\u2019t spare any expense in the matter if\u2014\u201d \u201cBut, brother Anthony, what good could your money have done?\u201d \u201cSister,\u201d said Anthony Rockwall. \u201cI\u2019ve got my pirate in a devil of a\nscrape. His ship has just been scuttled, and he\u2019s too good a judge of\nthe value of money to let drown. I wish you would let me go on with\nthis chapter.\u201d The story should end here. I wish it would as heartily as you who read\nit wish it did. But we must go to the bottom of the well for truth.", "words": 295}, {"story": 57, "title": "MAMMON AND THE ARCHER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The next day a person with red hands and a blue polka-dot necktie, who\ncalled himself Kelly, called at Anthony Rockwall\u2019s house, and was at\nonce received in the library. \u201cWell,\u201d said Anthony, reaching for his chequebook, \u201cit was a good\nbilin\u2019 of soap. Let\u2019s see\u2014you had $5,000 in cash.\u201d \u201cI paid out $300 more of my own,\u201d said Kelly. \u201cI had to go a little\nabove the estimate. I got the express wagons and cabs mostly for $5;\nbut the trucks and two-horse teams mostly raised me to $10. The\nmotormen wanted $10, and some of the loaded teams $20. The cops struck\nme hardest\u2014$50 I paid two, and the rest $20 and $25. But didn\u2019t it work\nbeautiful, Mr. Rockwall? I\u2019m glad William A. Brady wasn\u2019t onto that\nlittle outdoor vehicle mob scene. I wouldn\u2019t want William to break his\nheart with jealousy. And never a rehearsal, either! The boys was on\ntime to the fraction of a second. It was two hours before a snake could\nget below Greeley\u2019s statue.\u201d \u201cThirteen hundred\u2014there you are, Kelly,\u201d said Anthony, tearing off a\ncheck. \u201cYour thousand, and the $300 you were out. You don\u2019t despise\nmoney, do you, Kelly?\u201d \u201cMe?\u201d said Kelly. \u201cI can lick the man that invented poverty.\u201d Anthony called Kelly when he was at the door. \u201cYou didn\u2019t notice,\u201d said he, \u201canywhere in the tie-up, a kind of a fat\nboy without any clothes on shooting arrows around with a bow, did you?\u201d \u201cWhy, no,\u201d said Kelly, mystified. \u201cI didn\u2019t. If he was like you say,\nmaybe the cops pinched him before I got there.\u201d \u201cI thought the little rascal wouldn\u2019t be on hand,\u201d chuckled Anthony.\n\u201cGood-by, Kelly.\u201d", "words": 281}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "It was a day in March. Never, never begin a story this way when you write one. No opening\ncould possibly be worse. It is unimaginative, flat, dry and likely to\nconsist of mere wind. But in this instance it is allowable. For the\nfollowing paragraph, which should have inaugurated the narrative, is\ntoo wildly extravagant and preposterous to be flaunted in the face of\nthe reader without preparation. Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Think of a New York girl shedding tears on the menu card! To account for this you will be allowed to guess that the lobsters were\nall out, or that she had sworn ice-cream off during Lent, or that she\nhad ordered onions, or that she had just come from a Hackett matinee.\nAnd then, all these theories being wrong, you will please let the story\nproceed. The gentleman who announced that the world was an oyster which he with\nhis sword would open made a larger hit than he deserved. It is not\ndifficult to open an oyster with a sword. But did you ever notice any\none try to open the terrestrial bivalve with a typewriter? Like to wait\nfor a dozen raw opened that way? Sarah had managed to pry apart the shells with her unhandy weapon far\nenough to nibble a wee bit at the cold and clammy world within. She\nknew no more shorthand than if she had been a graduate in stenography\njust let slip upon the world by a business college. So, not being able\nto stenog, she could not enter that bright galaxy of office talent. She\nwas a free-lance typewriter and canvassed for odd jobs of copying.", "words": 283}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The most brilliant and crowning feat of Sarah\u2019s battle with the world\nwas the deal she made with Schulenberg\u2019s Home Restaurant. The\nrestaurant was next door to the old red brick in which she hall-roomed.\nOne evening after dining at Schulenberg\u2019s 40-cent, five-course _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_ (served as fast as you throw the five baseballs at the coloured\ngentleman\u2019s head) Sarah took away with her the bill of fare. It was\nwritten in an almost unreadable script neither English nor German, and\nso arranged that if you were not careful you began with a toothpick and\nrice pudding and ended with soup and the day of the week. The next day Sarah showed Schulenberg a neat card on which the menu was\nbeautifully typewritten with the viands temptingly marshalled under\ntheir right and proper heads from \u201chors d\u2019oeuvre\u201d to \u201cnot responsible\nfor overcoats and umbrellas.\u201d Schulenberg became a naturalised citizen on the spot. Before Sarah left\nhim she had him willingly committed to an agreement. She was to furnish\ntypewritten bills of fare for the twenty-one tables in the restaurant\u2014a\nnew bill for each day\u2019s dinner, and new ones for breakfast and lunch as\noften as changes occurred in the food or as neatness required. In return for this Schulenberg was to send three meals per diem to\nSarah\u2019s hall room by a waiter\u2014an obsequious one if possible\u2014and furnish\nher each afternoon with a pencil draft of what Fate had in store for\nSchulenberg\u2019s customers on the morrow. Mutual satisfaction resulted from the agreement. Schulenberg\u2019s patrons\nnow knew what the food they ate was called even if its nature sometimes\npuzzled them. And Sarah had food during a cold, dull winter, which was\nthe main thing with her.", "words": 287}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "And then the almanac lied, and said that spring had come. Spring comes\nwhen it comes. The frozen snows of January still lay like adamant in\nthe crosstown streets. The hand-organs still played \u201cIn the Good Old\nSummertime,\u201d with their December vivacity and expression. Men began to\nmake thirty-day notes to buy Easter dresses. Janitors shut off steam.\nAnd when these things happen one may know that the city is still in the\nclutches of winter. One afternoon Sarah shivered in her elegant hall bedroom; \u201chouse\nheated; scrupulously clean; conveniences; seen to be appreciated.\u201d She\nhad no work to do except Schulenberg\u2019s menu cards. Sarah sat in her\nsqueaky willow rocker, and looked out the window. The calendar on the\nwall kept crying to her: \u201cSpringtime is here, Sarah\u2014springtime is here,\nI tell you. Look at me, Sarah, my figures show it. You\u2019ve got a neat\nfigure yourself, Sarah\u2014a\u2014nice springtime figure\u2014why do you look out the\nwindow so sadly?\u201d Sarah\u2019s room was at the back of the house. Looking out the window she\ncould see the windowless rear brick wall of the box factory on the next\nstreet. But the wall was clearest crystal; and Sarah was looking down a\ngrassy lane shaded with cherry trees and elms and bordered with\nraspberry bushes and Cherokee roses. Spring\u2019s real harbingers are too subtle for the eye and ear. Some must\nhave the flowering crocus, the wood-starring dogwood, the voice of\nbluebird\u2014even so gross a reminder as the farewell handshake of the\nretiring buckwheat and oyster before they can welcome the Lady in Green\nto their dull bosoms. But to old earth\u2019s choicest kin there come\nstraight, sweet messages from his newest bride, telling them they shall\nbe no stepchildren unless they choose to be. On the previous summer Sarah had gone into the country and loved a\nfarmer.", "words": 307}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "(In writing your story never hark back thus. It is bad art, and\ncripples interest. Let it march, march.) Sarah stayed two weeks at Sunnybrook Farm. There she learned to love\nold Farmer Franklin\u2019s son Walter. Farmers have been loved and wedded\nand turned out to grass in less time. But young Walter Franklin was a\nmodern agriculturist. He had a telephone in his cow house, and he could\nfigure up exactly what effect next year\u2019s Canada wheat crop would have\non potatoes planted in the dark of the moon. It was in this shaded and raspberried lane that Walter had wooed and\nwon her. And together they had sat and woven a crown of dandelions for\nher hair. He had immoderately praised the effect of the yellow blossoms\nagainst her brown tresses; and she had left the chaplet there, and\nwalked back to the house swinging her straw sailor in her hands. They were to marry in the spring\u2014at the very first signs of spring,\nWalter said. And Sarah came back to the city to pound her typewriter. A knock at the door dispelled Sarah\u2019s visions of that happy day. A\nwaiter had brought the rough pencil draft of the Home Restaurant\u2019s next\nday fare in old Schulenberg\u2019s angular hand. Sarah sat down to her typewriter and slipped a card between the\nrollers. She was a nimble worker. Generally in an hour and a half the\ntwenty-one menu cards were written and ready.", "words": 244}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "To-day there were more changes on the bill of fare than usual. The\nsoups were lighter; pork was eliminated from the entr\u00e9es, figuring only\nwith Russian turnips among the roasts. The gracious spirit of spring\npervaded the entire menu. Lamb, that lately capered on the greening\nhillsides, was becoming exploited with the sauce that commemorated its\ngambols. The song of the oyster, though not silenced, was _dimuendo con\namore_. The frying-pan seemed to be held, inactive, behind the\nbeneficent bars of the broiler. The pie list swelled; the richer\npuddings had vanished; the sausage, with his drapery wrapped about him,\nbarely lingered in a pleasant thanatopsis with the buckwheats and the\nsweet but doomed maple. Sarah\u2019s fingers danced like midges above a summer stream. Down through\nthe courses she worked, giving each item its position according to its\nlength with an accurate eye. Just above the desserts came the list of\nvegetables. Carrots and peas, asparagus on toast, the perennial\ntomatoes and corn and succotash, lima beans, cabbage\u2014and then\u2014 Sarah was crying over her bill of fare. Tears from the depths of some\ndivine despair rose in her heart and gathered to her eyes. Down went\nher head on the little typewriter stand; and the keyboard rattled a dry\naccompaniment to her moist sobs. For she had received no letter from Walter in two weeks, and the next\nitem on the bill of fare was dandelions\u2014dandelions with some kind of\negg\u2014but bother the egg!\u2014dandelions, with whose golden blooms Walter had\ncrowned her his queen of love and future bride\u2014dandelions, the\nharbingers of spring, her sorrow\u2019s crown of sorrow\u2014reminder of her\nhappiest days.", "words": 272}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Madam, I dare you to smile until you suffer this test: Let the Marechal\nNiel roses that Percy brought you on the night you gave him your heart\nbe served as a salad with French dressing before your eyes at a\nSchulenberg _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_. Had Juliet so seen her love tokens\ndishonoured the sooner would she have sought the lethean herbs of the\ngood apothecary. But what a witch is Spring! Into the great cold city of stone and iron\na message had to be sent. There was none to convey it but the little\nhardy courier of the fields with his rough green coat and modest air.\nHe is a true soldier of fortune, this _dent-de-lion_\u2014this lion\u2019s tooth,\nas the French chefs call him. Flowered, he will assist at love-making,\nwreathed in my lady\u2019s nut-brown hair; young and callow and unblossomed,\nhe goes into the boiling pot and delivers the word of his sovereign\nmistress. By and by Sarah forced back her tears. The cards must be written. But,\nstill in a faint, golden glow from her dandeleonine dream, she fingered\nthe typewriter keys absently for a little while, with her mind and\nheart in the meadow lane with her young farmer. But soon she came\nswiftly back to the rock-bound lanes of Manhattan, and the typewriter\nbegan to rattle and jump like a strike-breaker\u2019s motor car. At 6 o\u2019clock the waiter brought her dinner and carried away the\ntypewritten bill of fare. When Sarah ate she set aside, with a sigh,\nthe dish of dandelions with its crowning ovarious accompaniment. As\nthis dark mass had been transformed from a bright and love-indorsed\nflower to be an ignominious vegetable, so had her summer hopes wilted\nand perished. Love may, as Shakespeare said, feed on itself: but Sarah\ncould not bring herself to eat the dandelions that had graced, as\nornaments, the first spiritual banquet of her heart\u2019s true affection.", "words": 320}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At 7:30 the couple in the next room began to quarrel: the man in the\nroom above sought for A on his flute; the gas went a little lower;\nthree coal wagons started to unload\u2014the only sound of which the\nphonograph is jealous; cats on the back fences slowly retreated toward\nMukden. By these signs Sarah knew that it was time for her to read. She\ngot out \u201cThe Cloister and the Hearth,\u201d the best non-selling book of the\nmonth, settled her feet on her trunk, and began to wander with Gerard. The front door bell rang. The landlady answered it. Sarah left Gerard\nand Denys treed by a bear and listened. Oh, yes; you would, just as she\ndid! And then a strong voice was heard in the hall below, and Sarah jumped\nfor her door, leaving the book on the floor and the first round easily\nthe bear\u2019s. You have guessed it. She reached the top of the stairs just\nas her farmer came up, three at a jump, and reaped and garnered her,\nwith nothing left for the gleaners. \u201cWhy haven\u2019t you written\u2014oh, why?\u201d cried Sarah. \u201cNew York is a pretty large town,\u201d said Walter Franklin. \u201cI came in a\nweek ago to your old address. I found that you went away on a Thursday.\nThat consoled some; it eliminated the possible Friday bad luck. But it\ndidn\u2019t prevent my hunting for you with police and otherwise ever since! \u201cI wrote!\u201d said Sarah, vehemently. \u201cNever got it!\u201d \u201cThen how did you find me?\u201d The young farmer smiled a springtime smile.", "words": 263}, {"story": 58, "title": "SPRINGTIME \u00c0 LA CARTE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI dropped into that Home Restaurant next door this evening,\u201d said he.\n\u201cI don\u2019t care who knows it; I like a dish of some kind of greens at\nthis time of the year. I ran my eye down that nice typewritten bill of\nfare looking for something in that line. When I got below cabbage I\nturned my chair over and hollered for the proprietor. He told me where\nyou lived.\u201d \u201cI remember,\u201d sighed Sarah, happily. \u201cThat was dandelions below\ncabbage.\u201d \u201cI\u2019d know that cranky capital W way above the line that your typewriter\nmakes anywhere in the world,\u201d said Franklin. \u201cWhy, there\u2019s no W in dandelions,\u201d said Sarah, in surprise. The young man drew the bill of fare from his pocket, and pointed to a\nline. Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon.\nThere was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where\na tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the\nname of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms\nhad allowed her fingers to strike strange keys. Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item: \u201cDEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG.\u201d", "words": 200}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Suppose you should be walking down Broadway after dinner, with ten\nminutes allotted to the consummation of your cigar while you are\nchoosing between a diverting tragedy and something serious in the way\nof vaudeville. Suddenly a hand is laid upon your arm. You turn to look\ninto the thrilling eyes of a beautiful woman, wonderful in diamonds and\nRussian sables. She thrusts hurriedly into your hand an extremely hot\nbuttered roll, flashes out a tiny pair of scissors, snips off the\nsecond button of your overcoat, meaningly ejaculates the one word,\n\u201cparallelogram!\u201d and swiftly flies down a cross street, looking back\nfearfully over her shoulder. That would be pure adventure. Would you accept it? Not you. You would\nflush with embarrassment; you would sheepishly drop the roll and\ncontinue down Broadway, fumbling feebly for the missing button. This\nyou would do unless you are one of the blessed few in whom the pure\nspirit of adventure is not dead. True adventurers have never been plentiful. They who are set down in\nprint as such have been mostly business men with newly invented\nmethods. They have been out after the things they wanted\u2014golden\nfleeces, holy grails, lady loves, treasure, crowns and fame. The true\nadventurer goes forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet\nunknown fate. A fine example was the Prodigal Son\u2014when he started back\nhome. Half-adventurers\u2014brave and splendid figures\u2014have been numerous. From\nthe Crusades to the Palisades they have enriched the arts of history\nand fiction and the trade of historical fiction. But each of them had a\nprize to win, a goal to kick, an axe to grind, a race to run, a new\nthrust in tierce to deliver, a name to carve, a crow to pick\u2014so they\nwere not followers of true adventure.", "words": 297}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "In the big city the twin spirits Romance and Adventure are always\nabroad seeking worthy wooers. As we roam the streets they slyly peep at\nus and challenge us in twenty different guises. Without knowing why, we\nlook up suddenly to see in a window a face that seems to belong to our\ngallery of intimate portraits; in a sleeping thoroughfare we hear a cry\nof agony and fear coming from an empty and shuttered house; instead of\nat our familiar curb, a cab-driver deposits us before a strange door,\nwhich one, with a smile, opens for us and bids us enter; a slip of\npaper, written upon, flutters down to our feet from the high lattices\nof Chance; we exchange glances of instantaneous hate, affection and\nfear with hurrying strangers in the passing crowds; a sudden douse of\nrain\u2014and our umbrella may be sheltering the daughter of the Full Moon\nand first cousin of the Sidereal System; at every corner handkerchiefs\ndrop, fingers beckon, eyes besiege, and the lost, the lonely, the\nrapturous, the mysterious, the perilous, changing clues of adventure\nare slipped into our fingers. But few of us are willing to hold and\nfollow them. We are grown stiff with the ramrod of convention down our\nbacks. We pass on; and some day we come, at the end of a very dull\nlife, to reflect that our romance has been a pallid thing of a marriage\nor two, a satin rosette kept in a safe-deposit drawer, and a lifelong\nfeud with a steam radiator.", "words": 257}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Rudolf Steiner was a true adventurer. Few were the evenings on which he\ndid not go forth from his hall bedchamber in search of the unexpected\nand the egregious. The most interesting thing in life seemed to him to\nbe what might lie just around the next corner. Sometimes his\nwillingness to tempt fate led him into strange paths. Twice he had\nspent the night in a station-house; again and again he had found\nhimself the dupe of ingenious and mercenary tricksters; his watch and\nmoney had been the price of one flattering allurement. But with\nundiminished ardour he picked up every glove cast before him into the\nmerry lists of adventure. One evening Rudolf was strolling along a crosstown street in the older\ncentral part of the city. Two streams of people filled the\nsidewalks\u2014the home-hurrying, and that restless contingent that abandons\nhome for the specious welcome of the thousand-candle-power _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4te_. The young adventurer was of pleasing presence, and moved serenely and\nwatchfully. By daylight he was a salesman in a piano store. He wore his\ntie drawn through a topaz ring instead of fastened with a stick pin;\nand once he had written to the editor of a magazine that \u201cJunie\u2019s Love\nTest\u201d by Miss Libbey, had been the book that had most influenced his\nlife. During his walk a violent chattering of teeth in a glass case on the\nsidewalk seemed at first to draw his attention (with a qualm), to a\nrestaurant before which it was set; but a second glance revealed the\nelectric letters of a dentist\u2019s sign high above the next door. A giant\nnegro, fantastically dressed in a red embroidered coat, yellow trousers\nand a military cap, discreetly distributed cards to those of the\npassing crowd who consented to take them.", "words": 299}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "This mode of dentistic advertising was a common sight to Rudolf.\nUsually he passed the dispenser of the dentist\u2019s cards without reducing\nhis store; but tonight the African slipped one into his hand so deftly\nthat he retained it there smiling a little at the successful feat. When he had travelled a few yards further he glanced at the card\nindifferently. Surprised, he turned it over and looked again with\ninterest. One side of the card was blank; on the other was written in\nink three words, \u201cThe Green Door.\u201d And then Rudolf saw, three steps in\nfront of him, a man throw down the card the negro had given him as he\npassed. Rudolf picked it up. It was printed with the dentist\u2019s name and\naddress and the usual schedule of \u201cplate work\u201d and \u201cbridge work\u201d and\n\u201ccrowns,\u201d and specious promises of \u201cpainless\u201d operations. The adventurous piano salesman halted at the corner and considered.\nThen he crossed the street, walked down a block, recrossed and joined\nthe upward current of people again. Without seeming to notice the negro\nas he passed the second time, he carelessly took the card that was\nhanded him. Ten steps away he inspected it. In the same handwriting\nthat appeared on the first card \u201cThe Green Door\u201d was inscribed upon it.\nThree or four cards were tossed to the pavement by pedestrians both\nfollowing and leading him. These fell blank side up. Rudolf turned them\nover. Every one bore the printed legend of the dental \u201cparlours.\u201d Rarely did the arch sprite Adventure need to beckon twice to Rudolf\nSteiner, his true follower. But twice it had been done, and the quest\nwas on.", "words": 279}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Rudolf walked slowly back to where the giant negro stood by the case of\nrattling teeth. This time as he passed he received no card. In spite of\nhis gaudy and ridiculous garb, the Ethiopian displayed a natural\nbarbaric dignity as he stood, offering the cards suavely to some,\nallowing others to pass unmolested. Every half minute he chanted a\nharsh, unintelligible phrase akin to the jabber of car conductors and\ngrand opera. And not only did he withhold a card this time, but it\nseemed to Rudolf that he received from the shining and massive black\ncountenance a look of cold, almost contemptuous disdain. The look stung the adventurer. He read in it a silent accusation that\nhe had been found wanting. Whatever the mysterious written words on the\ncards might mean, the black had selected him twice from the throng for\ntheir recipient; and now seemed to have condemned him as deficient in\nthe wit and spirit to engage the enigma. Standing aside from the rush, the young man made a rapid estimate of\nthe building in which he conceived that his adventure must lie. Five\nstories high it rose. A small restaurant occupied the basement. The first floor, now closed, seemed to house millinery or furs. The\nsecond floor, by the winking electric letters, was the dentist\u2019s. Above\nthis a polyglot babel of signs struggled to indicate the abodes of\npalmists, dressmakers, musicians and doctors. Still higher up draped\ncurtains and milk bottles white on the window sills proclaimed the\nregions of domesticity.", "words": 256}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "After concluding his survey Rudolf walked briskly up the high flight of\nstone steps into the house. Up two flights of the carpeted stairway he\ncontinued; and at its top paused. The hallway there was dimly lighted\nby two pale jets of gas\u2014one far to his right, the other nearer, to his\nleft. He looked toward the nearer light and saw, within its wan halo, a\ngreen door. For one moment he hesitated; then he seemed to see the\ncontumelious sneer of the African juggler of cards; and then he walked\nstraight to the green door and knocked against it. Moments like those that passed before his knock was answered measure\nthe quick breath of true adventure. What might not be behind those\ngreen panels! Gamesters at play; cunning rogues baiting their traps\nwith subtle skill; beauty in love with courage, and thus planning to be\nsought by it; danger, death, love, disappointment, ridicule\u2014any of\nthese might respond to that temerarious rap. A faint rustle was heard inside, and the door slowly opened. A girl not\nyet twenty stood there, white-faced and tottering. She loosed the knob\nand swayed weakly, groping with one hand. Rudolf caught her and laid\nher on a faded couch that stood against the wall. He closed the door\nand took a swift glance around the room by the light of a flickering\ngas jet. Neat, but extreme poverty was the story that he read.", "words": 239}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The girl lay still, as if in a faint. Rudolf looked around the room\nexcitedly for a barrel. People must be rolled upon a barrel who\u2014no, no;\nthat was for drowned persons. He began to fan her with his hat. That\nwas successful, for he struck her nose with the brim of his derby and\nshe opened her eyes. And then the young man saw that hers, indeed, was\nthe one missing face from his heart\u2019s gallery of intimate portraits.\nThe frank, grey eyes, the little nose, turning pertly outward; the\nchestnut hair, curling like the tendrils of a pea vine, seemed the\nright end and reward of all his wonderful adventures. But the face was\nwofully thin and pale. The girl looked at him calmly, and then smiled. \u201cFainted, didn\u2019t I?\u201d she asked, weakly. \u201cWell, who wouldn\u2019t? You try\ngoing without anything to eat for three days and see!\u201d \u201cHimmel!\u201d exclaimed Rudolf, jumping up. \u201cWait till I come back.\u201d He dashed out the green door and down the stairs. In twenty minutes he\nwas back again, kicking at the door with his toe for her to open it.\nWith both arms he hugged an array of wares from the grocery and the\nrestaurant. On the table he laid them\u2014bread and butter, cold meats,\ncakes, pies, pickles, oysters, a roasted chicken, a bottle of milk and\none of red-hot tea.", "words": 230}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cThis is ridiculous,\u201d said Rudolf, blusteringly, \u201cto go without eating.\nYou must quit making election bets of this kind. Supper is ready.\u201d He\nhelped her to a chair at the table and asked: \u201cIs there a cup for the\ntea?\u201d \u201cOn the shelf by the window,\u201d she answered. When he turned again\nwith the cup he saw her, with eyes shining rapturously, beginning upon\na huge Dill pickle that she had rooted out from the paper bags with a\nwoman\u2019s unerring instinct. He took it from her, laughingly, and poured\nthe cup full of milk. \u201cDrink that first\u201d he ordered, \u201cand then you\nshall have some tea, and then a chicken wing. If you are very good you\nshall have a pickle to-morrow. And now, if you\u2019ll allow me to be your\nguest we\u2019ll have supper.\u201d He drew up the other chair. The tea brightened the girl\u2019s eyes and\nbrought back some of her colour. She began to eat with a sort of dainty\nferocity like some starved wild animal. She seemed to regard the young\nman\u2019s presence and the aid he had rendered her as a natural thing\u2014not\nas though she undervalued the conventions; but as one whose great\nstress gave her the right to put aside the artificial for the human.\nBut gradually, with the return of strength and comfort, came also a\nsense of the little conventions that belong; and she began to tell him\nher little story. It was one of a thousand such as the city yawns at\nevery day\u2014the shop girl\u2019s story of insufficient wages, further reduced\nby \u201cfines\u201d that go to swell the store\u2019s profits; of time lost through\nillness; and then of lost positions, lost hope, and\u2014the knock of the\nadventurer upon the green door. But to Rudolf the history sounded as big as the Iliad or the crisis in\n\u201cJunie\u2019s Love Test.\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cTo think of you going through all that,\u201d he exclaimed. \u201cIt was something fierce,\u201d said the girl, solemnly. \u201cAnd you have no relatives or friends in the city?\u201d \u201cNone whatever.\u201d \u201cI am all alone in the world, too,\u201d said Rudolf, after a pause. \u201cI am glad of that,\u201d said the girl, promptly; and somehow it pleased\nthe young man to hear that she approved of his bereft condition. Very suddenly her eyelids dropped and she sighed deeply. \u201cI\u2019m awfully sleepy,\u201d she said, \u201cand I feel so good.\u201d Then Rudolf rose and took his hat. \u201cI\u2019ll say good-night. A long night\u2019s\nsleep will be fine for you.\u201d He held out his hand, and she took it and said \u201cgood-night.\u201d But her\neyes asked a question so eloquently, so frankly and pathetically that\nhe answered it with words. \u201cOh, I\u2019m coming back to-morrow to see how you are getting along. You\ncan\u2019t get rid of me so easily.\u201d Then, at the door, as though the way of his coming had been so much\nless important than the fact that he had come, she asked: \u201cHow did you\ncome to knock at my door?\u201d He looked at her for a moment, remembering the cards, and felt a sudden\njealous pain. What if they had fallen into other hands as adventurous\nas his? Quickly he decided that she must never know the truth. He would\nnever let her know that he was aware of the strange expedient to which\nshe had been driven by her great distress. \u201cOne of our piano tuners lives in this house,\u201d he said. \u201cI knocked at\nyour door by mistake.\u201d The last thing he saw in the room before the green door closed was her\nsmile.", "words": 287}, {"story": 59, "title": "THE GREEN DOOR", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At the head of the stairway he paused and looked curiously about him.\nAnd then he went along the hallway to its other end; and, coming back,\nascended to the floor above and continued his puzzled explorations.\nEvery door that he found in the house was painted green. Wondering, he descended to the sidewalk. The fantastic African was\nstill there. Rudolf confronted him with his two cards in his hand. \u201cWill you tell me why you gave me these cards and what they mean?\u201d he\nasked. In a broad, good-natured grin the negro exhibited a splendid\nadvertisement of his master\u2019s profession. \u201cDar it is, boss,\u201d he said, pointing down the street. \u201cBut I \u2019spect you\nis a little late for de fust act.\u201d Looking the way he pointed Rudolf saw above the entrance to a theatre\nthe blazing electric sign of its new play, \u201cThe Green Door.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m informed dat it\u2019s a fust-rate show, sah,\u201d said the negro. \u201cDe\nagent what represents it pussented me with a dollar, sah, to distribute\na few of his cards along with de doctah\u2019s. May I offer you one of de\ndoctah\u2019s cards, sah?\u201d At the corner of the block in which he lived Rudolf stopped for a glass\nof beer and a cigar. When he had come out with his lighted weed he\nbuttoned his coat, pushed back his hat and said, stoutly, to the lamp\npost on the corner: \u201cAll the same, I believe it was the hand of Fate that doped out the way\nfor me to find her.\u201d Which conclusion, under the circumstances, certainly admits Rudolf\nSteiner to the ranks of the true followers of Romance and Adventure.", "words": 278}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The cabby has his point of view. It is more single-minded, perhaps,\nthan that of a follower of any other calling. From the high, swaying\nseat of his hansom he looks upon his fellow-men as nomadic particles,\nof no account except when possessed of migratory desires. He is Jehu,\nand you are goods in transit. Be you President or vagabond, to cabby\nyou are only a Fare, he takes you up, cracks his whip, joggles your\nvertebrae and sets you down. When time for payment arrives, if you exhibit a familiarity with legal\nrates you come to know what contempt is; if you find that you have left\nyour pocketbook behind you are made to realise the mildness of Dante\u2019s\nimagination. It is not an extravagant theory that the cabby\u2019s singleness of purpose\nand concentrated view of life are the results of the hansom\u2019s peculiar\nconstruction. The cock-of-the-roost sits aloft like Jupiter on an\nunsharable seat, holding your fate between two thongs of inconstant\nleather. Helpless, ridiculous, confined, bobbing like a toy mandarin,\nyou sit like a rat in a trap\u2014you, before whom butlers cringe on solid\nland\u2014and must squeak upward through a slit in your peripatetic\nsarcophagus to make your feeble wishes known. Then, in a cab, you are not even an occupant; you are contents. You are\na cargo at sea, and the \u201ccherub that sits up aloft\u201d has Davy Jones\u2019s\nstreet and number by heart.", "words": 238}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "One night there were sounds of revelry in the big brick tenement-house\nnext door but one to McGary\u2019s Family Caf\u00e9. The sounds seemed to emanate\nfrom the apartments of the Walsh family. The sidewalk was obstructed by\nan assortment of interested neighbours, who opened a lane from time to\ntime for a hurrying messenger bearing from McGary\u2019s goods pertinent to\nfestivity and diversion. The sidewalk contingent was engaged in comment\nand discussion from which it made no effort to eliminate the news that\nNorah Walsh was being married. In the fulness of time there was an eruption of the merry-makers to the\nsidewalk. The uninvited guests enveloped and permeated them, and upon\nthe night air rose joyous cries, congratulations, laughter and\nunclassified noises born of McGary\u2019s oblations to the hymeneal scene. Close to the curb stood Jerry O\u2019Donovan\u2019s cab. Night-hawk was Jerry\ncalled; but no more lustrous or cleaner hansom than his ever closed its\ndoors upon point lace and November violets. And Jerry\u2019s horse! I am\nwithin bounds when I tell you that he was stuffed with oats until one\nof those old ladies who leave their dishes unwashed at home and go\nabout having expressmen arrested, would have smiled\u2014yes, smiled\u2014to have\nseen him. Among the shifting, sonorous, pulsing crowd glimpses could be had of\nJerry\u2019s high hat, battered by the winds and rains of many years; of his\nnose like a carrot, battered by the frolicsome, athletic progeny of\nmillionaires and by contumacious fares; of his brass-buttoned green\ncoat, admired in the vicinity of McGary\u2019s. It was plain that Jerry had\nusurped the functions of his cab, and was carrying a \u201cload.\u201d Indeed,\nthe figure may be extended and he be likened to a bread-waggon if we\nadmit the testimony of a youthful spectator, who was heard to remark\n\u201cJerry has got a bun.\u201d", "words": 306}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "From somewhere among the throng in the street or else out of the thin\nstream of pedestrians a young woman tripped and stood by the cab. The\nprofessional hawk\u2019s eye of Jerry caught the movement. He made a lurch\nfor the cab, overturning three or four onlookers and himself\u2014no! he\ncaught the cap of a water-plug and kept his feet. Like a sailor\nshinning up the ratlins during a squall Jerry mounted to his\nprofessional seat. Once he was there McGary\u2019s liquids were baffled. He\nseesawed on the mizzenmast of his craft as safe as a Steeple Jack\nrigged to the flagpole of a skyscraper. \u201cStep in, lady,\u201d said Jerry, gathering his lines. The young woman\nstepped into the cab; the doors shut with a bang; Jerry\u2019s whip cracked\nin the air; the crowd in the gutter scattered, and the fine hansom\ndashed away \u2019crosstown. When the oat-spry horse had hedged a little his first spurt of speed\nJerry broke the lid of his cab and called down through the aperture in\nthe voice of a cracked megaphone, trying to please: \u201cWhere, now, will ye be drivin\u2019 to?\u201d \u201cAnywhere you please,\u201d came up the answer, musical and contented. \u201c\u2019Tis drivin\u2019 for pleasure she is,\u201d thought Jerry. And then he\nsuggested as a matter of course: \u201cTake a thrip around in the park, lady. \u2019Twill be ilegant cool and\nfine.\u201d \u201cJust as you like,\u201d answered the fare, pleasantly. The cab headed for Fifth avenue and sped up that perfect street. Jerry\nbounced and swayed in his seat. The potent fluids of McGary were\ndisquieted and they sent new fumes to his head. He sang an ancient song\nof Killisnook and brandished his whip like a baton. Inside the cab the fare sat up straight on the cushions, looking to\nright and left at the lights and houses. Even in the shadowed hansom\nher eyes shone like stars at twilight.", "words": 318}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "When they reached Fifty-ninth street Jerry\u2019s head was bobbing and his\nreins were slack. But his horse turned in through the park gate and\nbegan the old familiar nocturnal round. And then the fare leaned back,\nentranced, and breathed deep the clean, wholesome odours of grass and\nleaf and bloom. And the wise beast in the shafts, knowing his ground,\nstruck into his by-the-hour gait and kept to the right of the road. Habit also struggled successfully against Jerry\u2019s increasing torpor. He\nraised the hatch of his storm-tossed vessel and made the inquiry that\ncabbies do make in the park. \u201cLike shtop at the Cas-sino, lady? Gezzer r\u2019freshm\u2019s, \u2019n lish\u2019n the\nmusic. Ev\u2019body shtops.\u201d \u201cI think that would be nice,\u201d said the fare. They reined up with a plunge at the Casino entrance. The cab doors flew\nopen. The fare stepped directly upon the floor. At once she was caught\nin a web of ravishing music and dazzled by a panorama of lights and\ncolours. Some one slipped a little square card into her hand on which\nwas printed a number\u201434. She looked around and saw her cab twenty yards\naway already lining up in its place among the waiting mass of\ncarriages, cabs and motor cars. And then a man who seemed to be all\nshirt-front danced backward before her; and next she was seated at a\nlittle table by a railing over which climbed a jessamine vine. There seemed to be a wordless invitation to purchase; she consulted a\ncollection of small coins in a thin purse, and received from them\nlicense to order a glass of beer. There she sat, inhaling and absorbing\nit all\u2014the new-coloured, new-shaped life in a fairy palace in an\nenchanted wood.", "words": 289}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At fifty tables sat princes and queens clad in all the silks and gems\nof the world. And now and then one of them would look curiously at\nJerry\u2019s fare. They saw a plain figure dressed in a pink silk of the\nkind that is tempered by the word \u201cfoulard,\u201d and a plain face that wore\na look of love of life that the queens envied. Twice the long hands of the clocks went round, Royalties thinned from\ntheir _al fresco_ thrones, and buzzed or clattered away in their\nvehicles of state. The music retired into cases of wood and bags of\nleather and baize. Waiters removed cloths pointedly near the plain\nfigure sitting almost alone. Jerry\u2019s fare rose, and held out her numbered card simply: \u201cIs there anything coming on the ticket?\u201d she asked. A waiter told her it was her cab check, and that she should give it to\nthe man at the entrance. This man took it, and called the number. Only\nthree hansoms stood in line. The driver of one of them went and routed\nout Jerry asleep in his cab. He swore deeply, climbed to the captain\u2019s\nbridge and steered his craft to the pier. His fare entered, and the cab\nwhirled into the cool fastnesses of the park along the shortest\nhomeward cuts. At the gate a glimmer of reason in the form of sudden suspicion seized\nupon Jerry\u2019s beclouded mind. One or two things occurred to him. He\nstopped his horse, raised the trap and dropped his phonographic voice,\nlike a lead plummet, through the aperture: \u201cI want to see four dollars before goin\u2019 any further on th\u2019 thrip. Have\nye got th\u2019 dough?\u201d \u201cFour dollars!\u201d laughed the fare, softly, \u201cdear me, no. I\u2019ve only got a\nfew pennies and a dime or two.\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 60, "title": "FROM THE CABBY\u2019S SEAT", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Jerry shut down the trap and slashed his oat-fed horse. The clatter of\nhoofs strangled but could not drown the sound of his profanity. He\nshouted choking and gurgling curses at the starry heavens; he cut\nviciously with his whip at passing vehicles; he scattered fierce and\never-changing oaths and imprecations along the streets, so that a late\ntruck driver, crawling homeward, heard and was abashed. But he knew his\nrecourse, and made for it at a gallop. At the house with the green lights beside the steps he pulled up. He\nflung wide the cab doors and tumbled heavily to the ground. \u201cCome on, you,\u201d he said, roughly. His fare came forth with the Casino dreamy smile still on her plain\nface. Jerry took her by the arm and led her into the police station. A\ngray-moustached sergeant looked keenly across the desk. He and the\ncabby were no strangers. \u201cSargeant,\u201d began Jerry in his old raucous, martyred, thunderous tones\nof complaint. \u201cI\u2019ve got a fare here that\u2014\u201d Jerry paused. He drew a knotted, red hand across his brow. The fog set\nup by McGary was beginning to clear away. \u201cA fare, sargeant,\u201d he continued, with a grin, \u201cthat I want to\ninthroduce to ye. It\u2019s me wife that I married at ould man Walsh\u2019s this\navening. And a divil of a time we had, \u2019tis thrue. Shake hands wid th\u2019\nsargeant, Norah, and we\u2019ll be off to home.\u201d Before stepping into the cab Norah sighed profoundly. \u201cI\u2019ve had such a nice time, Jerry,\u201d said she.", "words": 257}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "We no longer groan and heap ashes upon our heads when the flames of\nTophet are mentioned. For, even the preachers have begun to tell us\nthat God is radium, or ether or some scientific compound, and that the\nworst we wicked ones may expect is a chemical reaction. This is a\npleasing hypothesis; but there lingers yet some of the old, goodly\nterror of orthodoxy. There are but two subjects upon which one may discourse with a free\nimagination, and without the possibility of being controverted. You may\ntalk of your dreams; and you may tell what you heard a parrot say. Both\nMorpheus and the bird are incompetent witnesses; and your listener dare\nnot attack your recital. The baseless fabric of a vision, then, shall\nfurnish my theme\u2014chosen with apologies and regrets instead of the more\nlimited field of pretty Polly\u2019s small talk. I had a dream that was so far removed from the higher criticism that it\nhad to do with the ancient, respectable, and lamented bar-of-judgment\ntheory. Gabriel had played his trump; and those of us who could not follow suit\nwere arraigned for examination. I noticed at one side a gathering of\nprofessional bondsmen in solemn black and collars that buttoned behind;\nbut it seemed there was some trouble about their real estate titles;\nand they did not appear to be getting any of us out. A fly cop\u2014an angel policeman\u2014flew over to me and took me by the left\nwing. Near at hand was a group of very prosperous-looking spirits\narraigned for judgment. \u201cDo you belong with that bunch?\u201d the policeman asked. \u201cWho are they?\u201d was my answer. \u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201cthey are\u2014\u201d But this irrelevant stuff is taking up space that the story should\noccupy.", "words": 292}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dulcie worked in a department store. She sold Hamburg edging, or\nstuffed peppers, or automobiles, or other little trinkets such as they\nkeep in department stores. Of what she earned, Dulcie received six\ndollars per week. The remainder was credited to her and debited to\nsomebody else\u2019s account in the ledger kept by G\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013 Oh, primal energy,\nyou say, Reverend Doctor\u2014Well then, in the Ledger of Primal Energy. During her first year in the store, Dulcie was paid five dollars per\nweek. It would be instructive to know how she lived on that amount.\nDon\u2019t care? Very well; probably you are interested in larger amounts.\nSix dollars is a larger amount. I will tell you how she lived on six\ndollars per week. One afternoon at six, when Dulcie was sticking her hat-pin within an\neighth of an inch of her _medulla oblongata_, she said to her chum,\nSadie\u2014the girl that waits on you with her left side: \u201cSay, Sade, I made a date for dinner this evening with Piggy.\u201d \u201cYou never did!\u201d exclaimed Sadie admiringly. \u201cWell, ain\u2019t you the lucky\none? Piggy\u2019s an awful swell; and he always takes a girl to swell\nplaces. He took Blanche up to the Hoffman House one evening, where they\nhave swell music, and you see a lot of swells. You\u2019ll have a swell\ntime, Dulce.\u201d Dulcie hurried homeward. Her eyes were shining, and her cheeks showed\nthe delicate pink of life\u2019s\u2014real life\u2019s\u2014approaching dawn. It was\nFriday; and she had fifty cents left of her last week\u2019s wages.", "words": 255}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The streets were filled with the rush-hour floods of people. The\nelectric lights of Broadway were glowing\u2014calling moths from miles, from\nleagues, from hundreds of leagues out of darkness around to come in and\nattend the singeing school. Men in accurate clothes, with faces like\nthose carved on cherry stones by the old salts in sailors\u2019 homes,\nturned and stared at Dulcie as she sped, unheeding, past them.\nManhattan, the night-blooming cereus, was beginning to unfold its\ndead-white, heavy-odoured petals. Dulcie stopped in a store where goods were cheap and bought an\nimitation lace collar with her fifty cents. That money was to have been\nspent otherwise\u2014fifteen cents for supper, ten cents for breakfast, ten\ncents for lunch. Another dime was to be added to her small store of\nsavings; and five cents was to be squandered for licorice drops\u2014the\nkind that made your cheek look like the toothache, and last as long.\nThe licorice was an extravagance\u2014almost a carouse\u2014but what is life\nwithout pleasures? Dulcie lived in a furnished room. There is this difference between a\nfurnished room and a boarding-house. In a furnished room, other people\ndo not know it when you go hungry. Dulcie went up to her room\u2014the third floor back in a West Side\nbrownstone-front. She lit the gas. Scientists tell us that the diamond\nis the hardest substance known. Their mistake. Landladies know of a\ncompound beside which the diamond is as putty. They pack it in the tips\nof gas-burners; and one may stand on a chair and dig at it in vain\nuntil one\u2019s fingers are pink and bruised. A hairpin will not remove it;\ntherefore let us call it immovable. So Dulcie lit the gas. In its one-fourth-candlepower glow we will\nobserve the room.", "words": 293}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Couch-bed, dresser, table, washstand, chair\u2014of this much the landlady\nwas guilty. The rest was Dulcie\u2019s. On the dresser were her treasures\u2014a\ngilt china vase presented to her by Sadie, a calendar issued by a\npickle works, a book on the divination of dreams, some rice powder in a\nglass dish, and a cluster of artificial cherries tied with a pink\nribbon. Against the wrinkly mirror stood pictures of General Kitchener, William\nMuldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Benvenuto Cellini. Against one\nwall was a plaster of Paris plaque of an O\u2019Callahan in a Roman helmet.\nNear it was a violent oleograph of a lemon-coloured child assaulting an\ninflammatory butterfly. This was Dulcie\u2019s final judgment in art; but it\nhad never been upset. Her rest had never been disturbed by whispers of\nstolen copes; no critic had elevated his eyebrows at her infantile\nentomologist. Piggy was to call for her at seven. While she swiftly makes ready, let\nus discreetly face the other way and gossip. For the room, Dulcie paid two dollars per week. On week-days her\nbreakfast cost ten cents; she made coffee and cooked an egg over the\ngaslight while she was dressing. On Sunday mornings she feasted royally\non veal chops and pineapple fritters at \u201cBilly\u2019s\u201d restaurant, at a cost\nof twenty-five cents\u2014and tipped the waitress ten cents. New York\npresents so many temptations for one to run into extravagance. She had\nher lunches in the department-store restaurant at a cost of sixty cents\nfor the week; dinners were $1.05. The evening papers\u2014show me a New\nYorker going without his daily paper!\u2014came to six cents; and two Sunday\npapers\u2014one for the personal column and the other to read\u2014were ten\ncents. The total amounts to $4.76. Now, one has to buy clothes, and\u2014", "words": 295}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "I give it up. I hear of wonderful bargains in fabrics, and of miracles\nperformed with needle and thread; but I am in doubt. I hold my pen\npoised in vain when I would add to Dulcie\u2019s life some of those joys\nthat belong to woman by virtue of all the unwritten, sacred, natural,\ninactive ordinances of the equity of heaven. Twice she had been to\nConey Island and had ridden the hobby-horses. \u2019Tis a weary thing to\ncount your pleasures by summers instead of by hours. Piggy needs but a word. When the girls named him, an undeserving stigma\nwas cast upon the noble family of swine. The words-of-three-letters\nlesson in the old blue spelling book begins with Piggy\u2019s biography. He\nwas fat; he had the soul of a rat, the habits of a bat, and the\nmagnanimity of a cat . . . He wore expensive clothes; and was a\nconnoisseur in starvation. He could look at a shop-girl and tell you to\nan hour how long it had been since she had eaten anything more\nnourishing than marshmallows and tea. He hung about the shopping\ndistricts, and prowled around in department stores with his invitations\nto dinner. Men who escort dogs upon the streets at the end of a string\nlook down upon him. He is a type; I can dwell upon him no longer; my\npen is not the kind intended for him; I am no carpenter. At ten minutes to seven Dulcie was ready. She looked at herself in the\nwrinkly mirror. The reflection was satisfactory. The dark blue dress,\nfitting without a wrinkle, the hat with its jaunty black feather, the\nbut-slightly-soiled gloves\u2014all representing self-denial, even of food\nitself\u2014were vastly becoming.", "words": 287}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dulcie forgot everything else for a moment except that she was\nbeautiful, and that life was about to lift a corner of its mysterious\nveil for her to observe its wonders. No gentleman had ever asked her\nout before. Now she was going for a brief moment into the glitter and\nexalted show. The girls said that Piggy was a \u201cspender.\u201d There would be a grand\ndinner, and music, and splendidly dressed ladies to look at, and things\nto eat that strangely twisted the girls\u2019 jaws when they tried to tell\nabout them. No doubt she would be asked out again. There was a blue\npongee suit in a window that she knew\u2014by saving twenty cents a week\ninstead of ten, in\u2014let\u2019s see\u2014Oh, it would run into years! But there was\na second-hand store in Seventh Avenue where\u2014 Somebody knocked at the door. Dulcie opened it. The landlady stood\nthere with a spurious smile, sniffing for cooking by stolen gas. \u201cA gentleman\u2019s downstairs to see you,\u201d she said. \u201cName is Mr. Wiggins.\u201d By such epithet was Piggy known to unfortunate ones who had to take him\nseriously. Dulcie turned to the dresser to get her handkerchief; and then she\nstopped still, and bit her underlip hard. While looking in her mirror\nshe had seen fairyland and herself, a princess, just awakening from a\nlong slumber. She had forgotten one that was watching her with sad,\nbeautiful, stern eyes\u2014the only one there was to approve or condemn what\nshe did. Straight and slender and tall, with a look of sorrowful\nreproach on his handsome, melancholy face, General Kitchener fixed his\nwonderful eyes on her out of his gilt photograph frame on the dresser. Dulcie turned like an automatic doll to the landlady. \u201cTell him I can\u2019t go,\u201d she said dully. \u201cTell him I\u2019m sick, or\nsomething. Tell him I\u2019m not going out.\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "After the door was closed and locked, Dulcie fell upon her bed,\ncrushing her black tip, and cried for ten minutes. General Kitchener\nwas her only friend. He was Dulcie\u2019s ideal of a gallant knight. He\nlooked as if he might have a secret sorrow, and his wonderful moustache\nwas a dream, and she was a little afraid of that stern yet tender look\nin his eyes. She used to have little fancies that he would call at the\nhouse sometime, and ask for her, with his sword clanking against his\nhigh boots. Once, when a boy was rattling a piece of chain against a\nlamp-post she had opened the window and looked out. But there was no\nuse. She knew that General Kitchener was away over in Japan, leading\nhis army against the savage Turks; and he would never step out of his\ngilt frame for her. Yet one look from him had vanquished Piggy that\nnight. Yes, for that night. When her cry was over Dulcie got up and took off her best dress, and\nput on her old blue kimono. She wanted no dinner. She sang two verses\nof \u201cSammy.\u201d Then she became intensely interested in a little red speck\non the side of her nose. And after that was attended to, she drew up a\nchair to the rickety table, and told her fortune with an old deck of\ncards. \u201cThe horrid, impudent thing!\u201d she said aloud. \u201cAnd I never gave him a\nword or a look to make him think it!\u201d At nine o\u2019clock Dulcie took a tin box of crackers and a little pot of\nraspberry jam out of her trunk, and had a feast. She offered General\nKitchener some jam on a cracker; but he only looked at her as the\nsphinx would have looked at a butterfly\u2014if there are butterflies in the\ndesert.", "words": 311}, {"story": 61, "title": "AN UNFINISHED STORY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cDon\u2019t eat it if you don\u2019t want to,\u201d said Dulcie. \u201cAnd don\u2019t put on so\nmany airs and scold so with your eyes. I wonder if you\u2019d be so superior\nand snippy if you had to live on six dollars a week.\u201d It was not a good sign for Dulcie to be rude to General Kitchener. And\nthen she turned Benvenuto Cellini face downward with a severe gesture.\nBut that was not inexcusable; for she had always thought he was Henry\nVIII, and she did not approve of him. At half-past nine Dulcie took a last look at the pictures on the\ndresser, turned out the light, and skipped into bed. It\u2019s an awful\nthing to go to bed with a good-night look at General Kitchener, William\nMuldoon, the Duchess of Marlborough, and Benvenuto Cellini. This story\nreally doesn\u2019t get anywhere at all. The rest of it comes later\u2014sometime\nwhen Piggy asks Dulcie again to dine with him, and she is feeling\nlonelier than usual, and General Kitchener happens to be looking the\nother way; and then\u2014 As I said before, I dreamed that I was standing near a crowd of\nprosperous-looking angels, and a policeman took me by the wing and\nasked if I belonged with them. \u201cWho are they?\u201d I asked. \u201cWhy,\u201d said he, \u201cthey are the men who hired working-girls, and paid \u2019em\nfive or six dollars a week to live on. Are you one of the bunch?\u201d \u201cNot on your immortality,\u201d said I. \u201cI\u2019m only the fellow that set fire\nto an orphan asylum, and murdered a blind man for his pennies.\u201d", "words": 266}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Prince Michael, of the Electorate of Valleluna, sat on his favourite\nbench in the park. The coolness of the September night quickened the\nlife in him like a rare, tonic wine. The benches were not filled; for\npark loungers, with their stagnant blood, are prompt to detect and fly\nhome from the crispness of early autumn. The moon was just clearing the\nroofs of the range of dwellings that bounded the quadrangle on the\neast. Children laughed and played about the fine-sprayed fountain. In\nthe shadowed spots fauns and hamadryads wooed, unconscious of the gaze\nof mortal eyes. A hand organ\u2014Philomel by the grace of our stage\ncarpenter, Fancy\u2014fluted and droned in a side street. Around the\nenchanted boundaries of the little park street cars spat and mewed and\nthe stilted trains roared like tigers and lions prowling for a place to\nenter. And above the trees shone the great, round, shining face of an\nilluminated clock in the tower of an antique public building. Prince Michael\u2019s shoes were wrecked far beyond the skill of the\ncarefullest cobbler. The ragman would have declined any negotiations\nconcerning his clothes. The two weeks\u2019 stubble on his face was grey and\nbrown and red and greenish yellow\u2014as if it had been made up from\nindividual contributions from the chorus of a musical comedy. No man\nexisted who had money enough to wear so bad a hat as his.", "words": 235}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Prince Michael sat on his favourite bench and smiled. It was a\ndiverting thought to him that he was wealthy enough to buy every one of\nthose close-ranged, bulky, window-lit mansions that faced him, if he\nchose. He could have matched gold, equipages, jewels, art treasures,\nestates and acres with any Croesus in this proud city of Manhattan, and\nscarcely have entered upon the bulk of his holdings. He could have sat\nat table with reigning sovereigns. The social world, the world of art,\nthe fellowship of the elect, adulation, imitation, the homage of the\nfairest, honours from the highest, praise from the wisest, flattery,\nesteem, credit, pleasure, fame\u2014all the honey of life was waiting in the\ncomb in the hive of the world for Prince Michael, of the Electorate of\nValleluna, whenever he might choose to take it. But his choice was to\nsit in rags and dinginess on a bench in a park. For he had tasted of\nthe fruit of the tree of life, and, finding it bitter in his mouth, had\nstepped out of Eden for a time to seek distraction close to the\nunarmoured, beating heart of the world. These thoughts strayed dreamily through the mind of Prince Michael, as\nhe smiled under the stubble of his polychromatic beard. Lounging thus,\nclad as the poorest of mendicants in the parks, he loved to study\nhumanity. He found in altruism more pleasure than his riches, his\nstation and all the grosser sweets of life had given him. It was his\nchief solace and satisfaction to alleviate individual distress, to\nconfer favours upon worthy ones who had need of succour, to dazzle\nunfortunates by unexpected and bewildering gifts of truly royal\nmagnificence, bestowed, however, with wisdom and judiciousness.", "words": 291}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "And as Prince Michael\u2019s eye rested upon the glowing face of the great\nclock in the tower, his smile, altruistic as it was, became slightly\ntinged with contempt. Big thoughts were the Prince\u2019s; and it was always\nwith a shake of his head that he considered the subjugation of the\nworld to the arbitrary measures of Time. The comings and goings of\npeople in hurry and dread, controlled by the little metal moving hands\nof a clock, always made him sad. By and by came a young man in evening clothes and sat upon the third\nbench from the Prince. For half an hour he smoked cigars with nervous\nhaste, and then he fell to watching the face of the illuminated clock\nabove the trees. His perturbation was evident, and the Prince noted, in\nsorrow, that its cause was connected, in some manner, with the slowly\nmoving hands of the timepiece. His Highness arose and went to the young man\u2019s bench. \u201cI beg your pardon for addressing you,\u201d he said, \u201cbut I perceive that\nyou are disturbed in mind. If it may serve to mitigate the liberty I\nhave taken I will add that I am Prince Michael, heir to the throne of\nthe Electorate of Valleluna. I appear incognito, of course, as you may\ngather from my appearance. It is a fancy of mine to render aid to\nothers whom I think worthy of it. Perhaps the matter that seems to\ndistress you is one that would more readily yield to our mutual\nefforts.\u201d The young man looked up brightly at the Prince. Brightly, but the\nperpendicular line of perplexity between his brows was not smoothed\naway. He laughed, and even then it did not. But he accepted the\nmomentary diversion.", "words": 292}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cGlad to meet you, Prince,\u201d he said, good humouredly. \u201cYes, I\u2019d say you\nwere incog. all right. Thanks for your offer of assistance\u2014but I don\u2019t\nsee where your butting-in would help things any. It\u2019s a kind of private\naffair, you know\u2014but thanks all the same.\u201d Prince Michael sat at the young man\u2019s side. He was often rebuffed but\nnever offensively. His courteous manner and words forbade that. \u201cClocks,\u201d said the Prince, \u201care shackles on the feet of mankind. I have\nobserved you looking persistently at that clock. Its face is that of a\ntyrant, its numbers are false as those on a lottery ticket; its hands\nare those of a bunco steerer, who makes an appointment with you to your\nruin. Let me entreat you to throw off its humiliating bonds and to\ncease to order your affairs by that insensate monitor of brass and\nsteel.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t usually,\u201d said the young man. \u201cI carry a watch except when\nI\u2019ve got my radiant rags on.\u201d \u201cI know human nature as I do the trees and grass,\u201d said the Prince,\nwith earnest dignity. \u201cI am a master of philosophy, a graduate in art,\nand I hold the purse of a Fortunatus. There are few mortal misfortunes\nthat I cannot alleviate or overcome. I have read your countenance, and\nfound in it honesty and nobility as well as distress. I beg of you to\naccept my advice or aid. Do not belie the intelligence I see in your\nface by judging from my appearance of my ability to defeat your\ntroubles.\u201d The young man glanced at the clock again and frowned darkly. When his\ngaze strayed from the glowing horologue of time it rested intently upon\na four-story red brick house in the row of dwellings opposite to where\nhe sat. The shades were drawn, and the lights in many rooms shone dimly\nthrough them.", "words": 313}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cTen minutes to nine!\u201d exclaimed the young man, with an impatient\ngesture of despair. He turned his back upon the house and took a rapid\nstep or two in a contrary direction. \u201cRemain!\u201d commanded Prince Michael, in so potent a voice that the\ndisturbed one wheeled around with a somewhat chagrined laugh. \u201cI\u2019ll give her the ten minutes and then I\u2019m off,\u201d he muttered, and then\naloud to the Prince: \u201cI\u2019ll join you in confounding all clocks, my\nfriend, and throw in women, too.\u201d \u201cSit down,\u201d said the Prince calmly. \u201cI do not accept your addition.\nWomen are the natural enemies of clocks, and, therefore, the allies of\nthose who would seek liberation from these monsters that measure our\nfollies and limit our pleasures. If you will so far confide in me I\nwould ask you to relate to me your story.\u201d The young man threw himself upon the bench with a reckless laugh. \u201cYour Royal Highness, I will,\u201d he said, in tones of mock deference. \u201cDo\nyou see yonder house\u2014the one with three upper windows lighted? Well, at\n6 o\u2019clock I stood in that house with the young lady I am\u2014that is, I\nwas\u2014engaged to. I had been doing wrong, my dear Prince\u2014I had been a\nnaughty boy, and she had heard of it. I wanted to be forgiven, of\ncourse\u2014we are always wanting women to forgive us, aren\u2019t we, Prince?\u201d", "words": 232}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2018I want time to think it over,\u2019 said she. \u2018There is one thing certain;\nI will either fully forgive you, or I will never see your face again.\nThere will be no half-way business. At half-past eight,\u2019 she said, \u2018at\nexactly half-past eight you may be watching the middle upper window of\nthe top floor. If I decide to forgive I will hang out of that window a\nwhite silk scarf. You will know by that that all is as was before, and\nyou may come to me. If you see no scarf you may consider that\neverything between us is ended forever.\u2019 That,\u201d concluded the young man\nbitterly, \u201cis why I have been watching that clock. The time for the\nsignal to appear has passed twenty-three minutes ago. Do you wonder\nthat I am a little disturbed, my Prince of Rags and Whiskers?\u201d \u201cLet me repeat to you,\u201d said Prince Michael, in his even,\nwell-modulated tones, \u201cthat women are the natural enemies of clocks.\nClocks are an evil, women a blessing. The signal may yet appear.\u201d \u201cNever, on your principality!\u201d exclaimed the young man, hopelessly.\n\u201cYou don\u2019t know Marian\u2014of course. She\u2019s always on time, to the minute.\nThat was the first thing about her that attracted me. I\u2019ve got the\nmitten instead of the scarf. I ought to have known at 8.31 that my\ngoose was cooked. I\u2019ll go West on the 11.45 to-night with Jack Milburn.\nThe jig\u2019s up. I\u2019ll try Jack\u2019s ranch awhile and top off with the\nKlondike and whiskey. Good-night\u2014er\u2014er\u2014Prince.\u201d Prince Michael smiled his enigmatic, gentle, comprehending smile and\ncaught the coat sleeve of the other. The brilliant light in the\nPrince\u2019s eyes was softening to a dreamier, cloudy translucence.", "words": 285}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cWait,\u201d he said solemnly, \u201ctill the clock strikes. I have wealth and\npower and knowledge above most men, but when the clock strikes I am\nafraid. Stay by me until then. This woman shall be yours. You have the\nword of the hereditary Prince of Valleluna. On the day of your marriage\nI will give you $100,000 and a palace on the Hudson. But there must be\nno clocks in that palace\u2014they measure our follies and limit our\npleasures. Do you agree to that?\u201d \u201cOf course,\u201d said the young man, cheerfully, \u201cthey\u2019re a nuisance,\nanyway\u2014always ticking and striking and getting you late for dinner.\u201d He glanced again at the clock in the tower. The hands stood at three\nminutes to nine. \u201cI think,\u201d said Prince Michael, \u201cthat I will sleep a little. The day\nhas been fatiguing.\u201d He stretched himself upon a bench with the manner of one who had slept\nthus before. \u201cYou will find me in this park on any evening when the weather is\nsuitable,\u201d said the Prince, sleepily. \u201cCome to me when your marriage\nday is set and I will give you a cheque for the money.\u201d \u201cThanks, Your Highness,\u201d said the young man, seriously. \u201cIt doesn\u2019t\nlook as if I would need that palace on the Hudson, but I appreciate\nyour offer, just the same.\u201d Prince Michael sank into deep slumber. His battered hat rolled from the\nbench to the ground. The young man lifted it, placed it over the frowsy\nface and moved one of the grotesquely relaxed limbs into a more\ncomfortable position. \u201cPoor devil!\u201d he said, as he drew the tattered\nclothes closer about the Prince\u2019s breast. Sonorous and startling came the stroke of 9 from the clock tower. The\nyoung man sighed again, turned his face for one last look at the house\nof his relinquished hopes\u2014and cried aloud profane words of holy\nrapture.", "words": 313}, {"story": 62, "title": "THE CALIPH, CUPID AND THE CLOCK", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "From the middle upper window blossomed in the dusk a waving, snowy,\nfluttering, wonderful, divine emblem of forgiveness and promised joy. By came a citizen, rotund, comfortable, home-hurrying, unknowing of the\ndelights of waving silken scarfs on the borders of dimly-lit parks. \u201cWill you oblige me with the time, sir?\u201d asked the young man; and the\ncitizen, shrewdly conjecturing his watch to be safe, dragged it out and\nannounced: \u201cTwenty-nine and a half minutes past eight, sir.\u201d And then, from habit, he glanced at the clock in the tower, and made\nfurther oration. \u201cBy George! that clock\u2019s half an hour fast! First time in ten years\nI\u2019ve known it to be off. This watch of mine never varies a\u2014\u201d But the citizen was talking to vacancy. He turned and saw his hearer, a\nfast receding black shadow, flying in the direction of a house with\nthree lighted upper windows. And in the morning came along two policemen on their way to the beats\nthey owned. The park was deserted save for one dilapidated figure that\nsprawled, asleep, on a bench. They stopped and gazed upon it. \u201cIt\u2019s Dopy Mike,\u201d said one. \u201cHe hits the pipe every night. Park bum for\ntwenty years. On his last legs, I guess.\u201d The other policeman stooped and looked at something crumpled and crisp\nin the hand of the sleeper. \u201cGee!\u201d he remarked. \u201cHe\u2019s doped out a fifty-dollar bill, anyway. Wish I\nknew the brand of hop that he smokes.\u201d And then \u201cRap, rap, rap!\u201d went the club of realism against the shoe\nsoles of Prince Michael, of the Electorate of Valleluna.", "words": 267}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The Rubberneck Auto was about ready to start. The merry top-riders had\nbeen assigned to their seats by the gentlemanly conductor. The sidewalk\nwas blockaded with sightseers who had gathered to stare at sightseers,\njustifying the natural law that every creature on earth is preyed upon\nby some other creature. The megaphone man raised his instrument of torture; the inside of the\ngreat automobile began to thump and throb like the heart of a coffee\ndrinker. The top-riders nervously clung to the seats; the old lady from\nValparaiso, Indiana, shrieked to be put ashore. But, before a wheel\nturns, listen to a brief preamble through the cardiaphone, which shall\npoint out to you an object of interest on life\u2019s sightseeing tour. Swift and comprehensive is the recognition of white man for white man\nin African wilds; instant and sure is the spiritual greeting between\nmother and babe; unhesitatingly do master and dog commune across the\nslight gulf between animal and man; immeasurably quick and sapient are\nthe brief messages between one and one\u2019s beloved. But all these\ninstances set forth only slow and groping interchange of sympathy and\nthought beside one other instance which the Rubberneck coach shall\ndisclose. You shall learn (if you have not learned already) what two\nbeings of all earth\u2019s living inhabitants most quickly look into each\nother\u2019s hearts and souls when they meet face to face. The gong whirred, and the Glaring-at-Gotham car moved majestically upon\nits instructive tour. On the highest, rear seat was James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,\nand his Bride.", "words": 258}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Capitalise it, friend typo\u2014that last word\u2014word of words in the epiphany\nof life and love. The scent of the flowers, the booty of the bee, the\nprimal drip of spring waters, the overture of the lark, the twist of\nlemon peel on the cocktail of creation\u2014such is the bride. Holy is the\nwife; revered the mother; galliptious is the summer girl\u2014but the bride\nis the certified check among the wedding presents that the gods send in\nwhen man is married to mortality. The car glided up the Golden Way. On the bridge of the great cruiser\nthe captain stood, trumpeting the sights of the big city to his\npassengers. Wide-mouthed and open-eared, they heard the sights of the\nmetropolis thundered forth to their eyes. Confused, delirious with\nexcitement and provincial longings, they tried to make ocular responses\nto the megaphonic ritual. In the solemn spires of spreading cathedrals\nthey saw the home of the Vanderbilts; in the busy bulk of the Grand\nCentral depot they viewed, wonderingly, the frugal cot of Russell Sage.\nBidden to observe the highlands of the Hudson, they gaped,\nunsuspecting, at the upturned mountains of a new-laid sewer. To many\nthe elevated railroad was the Rialto, on the stations of which\nuniformed men sat and made chop suey of your tickets. And to this day\nin the outlying districts many have it that Chuck Connors, with his\nhand on his heart, leads reform; and that but for the noble municipal\nefforts of one Parkhurst, a district attorney, the notorious \u201cBishop\u201d\nPotter gang would have destroyed law and order from the Bowery to the\nHarlem River.", "words": 269}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "But I beg you to observe Mrs. James Williams\u2014Hattie Chalmers that\nwas\u2014once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride\u2019s, if she\nwill; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud\nloaned to her cheeks of its pink\u2014and as for the violet!\u2014her eyes will\ndo very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf\u2014oh,\nno, he was guiding the auto car\u2014of white chiffon\u2014or perhaps it was\ngrenadine or tulle\u2014was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her\nbonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the\nwork. And on Mrs. James Williams\u2019s face was recorded a little library of the\nworld\u2019s best thoughts in three volumes. Volume No. 1 contained the\nbelief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume\nNo. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent\nplace. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest\nseat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes all\nunderstanding. James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will\ngratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly\ntwenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well\nbuilt, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his\nwedding trip.", "words": 225}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P.\ntouring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of\nthe boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward\u2014oh, turn backward\nand give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just\nan hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees\nlooked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin\u2014even\nif it was the hatpins that did the work. Can\u2019t do it? Very well; hurry\nup with that touring car and the oil stock, then. Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket\nand a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and\nmilliners\u2019 shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe.\nThis girl gazed with large blue eyes, credulous, when the megaphone man\nroared his doctrine that millionaires were things about which we should\nbe concerned. Between blasts she resorted to Epictetian philosophy in\nthe form of pepsin chewing gum. At this girl\u2019s right hand sat a young man about twenty-four. He was\nwell-built, active, strong-jawed and good-natured. But if his\ndescription seems to follow that of James Williams, divest it of\nanything Cloverdalian. This man belonged to hard streets and sharp\ncorners. He looked keenly about him, seeming to begrudge the asphalt\nunder the feet of those upon whom he looked down from his perch. While the megaphone barks at a famous hostelry, let me whisper you\nthrough the low-tuned cardiaphone to sit tight; for now things are\nabout to happen, and the great city will close over them again as over\na scrap of ticker tape floating down from the den of a Broad street\nbear.", "words": 302}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The girl in the tan jacket twisted around to view the pilgrims on the\nlast seat. The other passengers she had absorbed; the seat behind her\nwas her Bluebeard\u2019s chamber. Her eyes met those of Mrs. James Williams. Between two ticks of a watch\nthey exchanged their life\u2019s experiences, histories, hopes and fancies.\nAnd all, mind you, with the eye, before two men could have decided\nwhether to draw steel or borrow a match. The bride leaned forward low. She and the girl spoke rapidly together,\ntheir tongues moving quickly like those of two serpents\u2014a comparison\nthat is not meant to go further. Two smiles and a dozen nods closed the\nconference. And now in the broad, quiet avenue in front of the Rubberneck car a man\nin dark clothes stood with uplifted hand. From the sidewalk another\nhurried to join him. The girl in the fruitful hat quickly seized her companion by the arm\nand whispered in his ear. That young man exhibited proof of ability to\nact promptly. Crouching low, he slid over the edge of the car, hung\nlightly for an instant, and then disappeared. Half a dozen of the\ntop-riders observed his feat, wonderingly, but made no comment, deeming\nit prudent not to express surprise at what might be the conventional\nmanner of alighting in this bewildering city. The truant passenger\ndodged a hansom and then floated past, like a leaf on a stream between\na furniture van and a florist\u2019s delivery wagon. The girl in the tan jacket turned again, and looked in the eyes of Mrs.\nJames Williams. Then she faced about and sat still while the Rubberneck\nauto stopped at the flash of the badge under the coat of the\nplainclothes man. \u201cWhat\u2019s eatin\u2019 you?\u201d demanded the megaphonist, abandoning his\nprofessional discourse for pure English.", "words": 302}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cKeep her at anchor for a minute,\u201d ordered the officer. \u201cThere\u2019s a man\non board we want\u2014a Philadelphia burglar called \u2018Pinky\u2019 McGuire. There\nhe is on the back seat. Look out for the side, Donovan.\u201d Donovan went to the hind wheel and looked up at James Williams. \u201cCome down, old sport,\u201d he said, pleasantly. \u201cWe\u2019ve got you. Back to\nSleepytown for yours. It ain\u2019t a bad idea, hidin\u2019 on a Rubberneck,\nthough. I\u2019ll remember that.\u201d Softly through the megaphone came the advice of the conductor: \u201cBetter step off, sir, and explain. The car must proceed on its tour.\u201d James Williams belonged among the level heads. With necessary slowness\nhe picked his way through the passengers down to the steps at the front\nof the car. His wife followed, but she first turned her eyes and saw\nthe escaped tourist glide from behind the furniture van and slip behind\na tree on the edge of the little park, not fifty feet away. Descended to the ground, James Williams faced his captors with a smile.\nHe was thinking what a good story he would have to tell in Cloverdale\nabout having been mistaken for a burglar. The Rubberneck coach\nlingered, out of respect for its patrons. What could be a more\ninteresting sight than this? \u201cMy name is James Williams, of Cloverdale, Missouri,\u201d he said kindly,\nso that they would not be too greatly mortified. \u201cI have letters here\nthat will show\u2014\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ll come with us, please,\u201d announced the plainclothes man. \u201c\u2018Pinky\u2019\nMcGuire\u2019s description fits you like flannel washed in hot suds. A\ndetective saw you on the Rubberneck up at Central Park and \u2019phoned down\nto take you in. Do your explaining at the station-house.\u201d James Williams\u2019s wife\u2014his bride of two weeks\u2014looked him in the face\nwith a strange, soft radiance in her eyes and a flush on her cheeks,\nlooked him in the face and said:", "words": 316}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cGo with \u2019em quietly, \u2018Pinky,\u2019 and maybe it\u2019ll be in your favour.\u201d And then as the Glaring-at-Gotham car rolled away she turned and threw\na kiss\u2014his wife threw a kiss\u2014at some one high up on the seats of the\nRubberneck. \u201cYour girl gives you good advice, McGuire,\u201d said Donovan. \u201cCome on,\nnow.\u201d And then madness descended upon and occupied James Williams. He pushed\nhis hat far upon the back of his head. \u201cMy wife seems to think I am a burglar,\u201d he said, recklessly. \u201cI never\nheard of her being crazy; therefore I must be. And if I\u2019m crazy, they\ncan\u2019t do anything to me for killing you two fools in my madness.\u201d Whereupon he resisted arrest so cheerfully and industriously that cops\nhad to be whistled for, and afterwards the reserves, to disperse a few\nthousand delighted spectators. At the station-house the desk sergeant asked for his name. \u201cMcDoodle, the Pink, or Pinky the Brute, I forget which,\u201d was James\nWilliams\u2019s answer. \u201cBut you can bet I\u2019m a burglar; don\u2019t leave that\nout. And you might add that it took five of \u2019em to pluck the Pink. I\u2019d\nespecially like to have that in the records.\u201d In an hour came Mrs. James Williams, with Uncle Thomas, of Madison\nAvenue, in a respect-compelling motor car and proofs of the hero\u2019s\ninnocence\u2014for all the world like the third act of a drama backed by an\nautomobile mfg. co. After the police had sternly reprimanded James Williams for imitating a\ncopyrighted burglar and given him as honourable a discharge as the\ndepartment was capable of, Mrs. Williams rearrested him and swept him\ninto an angle of the station-house. James Williams regarded her with\none eye. He always said that Donovan closed the other while somebody\nwas holding his good right hand. Never before had he given her a word\nof reproach or of reproof.", "words": 312}, {"story": 63, "title": "SISTERS OF THE GOLDEN CIRCLE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cIf you can explain,\u201d he began rather stiffly, \u201cwhy you\u2014\u201d \u201cDear,\u201d she interrupted, \u201clisten. It was an hour\u2019s pain and trial to\nyou. I did it for her\u2014I mean the girl who spoke to me on the coach. I\nwas so happy, Jim\u2014so happy with you that I didn\u2019t dare to refuse that\nhappiness to another. Jim, they were married only this morning\u2014those\ntwo; and I wanted him to get away. While they were struggling with you\nI saw him slip from behind his tree and hurry across the park. That\u2019s\nall of it, dear\u2014I had to do it.\u201d Thus does one sister of the plain gold band know another who stands in\nthe enchanted light that shines but once and briefly for each one. By\nrice and satin bows does mere man become aware of weddings. But bride\nknoweth bride at the glance of an eye. And between them swiftly passes\ncomfort and meaning in a language that man and widows wot not of.", "words": 165}, {"story": 64, "title": "THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Pitcher, confidential clerk in the office of Harvey Maxwell, broker,\nallowed a look of mild interest and surprise to visit his usually\nexpressionless countenance when his employer briskly entered at half\npast nine in company with his young lady stenographer. With a snappy\n\u201cGood-morning, Pitcher,\u201d Maxwell dashed at his desk as though he were\nintending to leap over it, and then plunged into the great heap of\nletters and telegrams waiting there for him. The young lady had been Maxwell\u2019s stenographer for a year. She was\nbeautiful in a way that was decidedly unstenographic. She forewent the\npomp of the alluring pompadour. She wore no chains, bracelets or\nlockets. She had not the air of being about to accept an invitation to\nluncheon. Her dress was grey and plain, but it fitted her figure with\nfidelity and discretion. In her neat black turban hat was the\ngold-green wing of a macaw. On this morning she was softly and shyly\nradiant. Her eyes were dreamily bright, her cheeks genuine peachblow,\nher expression a happy one, tinged with reminiscence. Pitcher, still mildly curious, noticed a difference in her ways this\nmorning. Instead of going straight into the adjoining room, where her\ndesk was, she lingered, slightly irresolute, in the outer office. Once\nshe moved over by Maxwell\u2019s desk, near enough for him to be aware of\nher presence. The machine sitting at that desk was no longer a man; it was a busy New\nYork broker, moved by buzzing wheels and uncoiling springs. \u201cWell\u2014what is it? Anything?\u201d asked Maxwell sharply. His opened mail lay\nlike a bank of stage snow on his crowded desk. His keen grey eye,\nimpersonal and brusque, flashed upon her half impatiently. \u201cNothing,\u201d answered the stenographer, moving away with a little smile. \u201cMr. Pitcher,\u201d she said to the confidential clerk, \u201cdid Mr. Maxwell say\nanything yesterday about engaging another stenographer?\u201d", "words": 312}, {"story": 64, "title": "THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cHe did,\u201d answered Pitcher. \u201cHe told me to get another one. I notified\nthe agency yesterday afternoon to send over a few samples this morning.\nIt\u2019s 9.45 o\u2019clock, and not a single picture hat or piece of pineapple\nchewing gum has showed up yet.\u201d \u201cI will do the work as usual, then,\u201d said the young lady, \u201cuntil some\none comes to fill the place.\u201d And she went to her desk at once and hung\nthe black turban hat with the gold-green macaw wing in its accustomed\nplace. He who has been denied the spectacle of a busy Manhattan broker during\na rush of business is handicapped for the profession of anthropology.\nThe poet sings of the \u201ccrowded hour of glorious life.\u201d The broker\u2019s\nhour is not only crowded, but the minutes and seconds are hanging to\nall the straps and packing both front and rear platforms. And this day was Harvey Maxwell\u2019s busy day. The ticker began to reel\nout jerkily its fitful coils of tape, the desk telephone had a chronic\nattack of buzzing. Men began to throng into the office and call at him\nover the railing, jovially, sharply, viciously, excitedly. Messenger\nboys ran in and out with messages and telegrams. The clerks in the\noffice jumped about like sailors during a storm. Even Pitcher\u2019s face\nrelaxed into something resembling animation. On the Exchange there were hurricanes and landslides and snowstorms and\nglaciers and volcanoes, and those elemental disturbances were\nreproduced in miniature in the broker\u2019s offices. Maxwell shoved his\nchair against the wall and transacted business after the manner of a\ntoe dancer. He jumped from ticker to \u2019phone, from desk to door with the\ntrained agility of a harlequin.", "words": 283}, {"story": 64, "title": "THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "In the midst of this growing and important stress the broker became\nsuddenly aware of a high-rolled fringe of golden hair under a nodding\ncanopy of velvet and ostrich tips, an imitation sealskin sacque and a\nstring of beads as large as hickory nuts, ending near the floor with a\nsilver heart. There was a self-possessed young lady connected with\nthese accessories; and Pitcher was there to construe her. \u201cLady from the Stenographer\u2019s Agency to see about the position,\u201d said\nPitcher. Maxwell turned half around, with his hands full of papers and ticker\ntape. \u201cWhat position?\u201d he asked, with a frown. \u201cPosition of stenographer,\u201d said Pitcher. \u201cYou told me yesterday to\ncall them up and have one sent over this morning.\u201d \u201cYou are losing your mind, Pitcher,\u201d said Maxwell. \u201cWhy should I have\ngiven you any such instructions? Miss Leslie has given perfect\nsatisfaction during the year she has been here. The place is hers as\nlong as she chooses to retain it. There\u2019s no place open here, madam.\nCountermand that order with the agency, Pitcher, and don\u2019t bring any\nmore of \u2019em in here.\u201d The silver heart left the office, swinging and banging itself\nindependently against the office furniture as it indignantly departed.\nPitcher seized a moment to remark to the bookkeeper that the \u201cold man\u201d\nseemed to get more absent-minded and forgetful every day of the world.", "words": 229}, {"story": 64, "title": "THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The rush and pace of business grew fiercer and faster. On the floor\nthey were pounding half a dozen stocks in which Maxwell\u2019s customers\nwere heavy investors. Orders to buy and sell were coming and going as\nswift as the flight of swallows. Some of his own holdings were\nimperilled, and the man was working like some high-geared, delicate,\nstrong machine\u2014strung to full tension, going at full speed, accurate,\nnever hesitating, with the proper word and decision and act ready and\nprompt as clockwork. Stocks and bonds, loans and mortgages, margins and\nsecurities\u2014here was a world of finance, and there was no room in it for\nthe human world or the world of nature. When the luncheon hour drew near there came a slight lull in the\nuproar. Maxwell stood by his desk with his hands full of telegrams and\nmemoranda, with a fountain pen over his right ear and his hair hanging\nin disorderly strings over his forehead. His window was open, for the\nbeloved janitress Spring had turned on a little warmth through the\nwaking registers of the earth. And through the window came a wandering\u2014perhaps a lost\u2014odour\u2014a\ndelicate, sweet odour of lilac that fixed the broker for a moment\nimmovable. For this odour belonged to Miss Leslie; it was her own, and\nhers only. The odour brought her vividly, almost tangibly before him. The world of\nfinance dwindled suddenly to a speck. And she was in the next\nroom\u2014twenty steps away. \u201cBy George, I\u2019ll do it now,\u201d said Maxwell, half aloud. \u201cI\u2019ll ask her\nnow. I wonder I didn\u2019t do it long ago.\u201d He dashed into the inner office with the haste of a short trying to\ncover. He charged upon the desk of the stenographer.", "words": 289}, {"story": 64, "title": "THE ROMANCE OF A BUSY BROKER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "She looked up at him with a smile. A soft pink crept over her cheek,\nand her eyes were kind and frank. Maxwell leaned one elbow on her desk.\nHe still clutched fluttering papers with both hands and the pen was\nabove his ear. \u201cMiss Leslie,\u201d he began hurriedly, \u201cI have but a moment to spare. I\nwant to say something in that moment. Will you be my wife? I haven\u2019t\nhad time to make love to you in the ordinary way, but I really do love\nyou. Talk quick, please\u2014those fellows are clubbing the stuffing out of\nUnion Pacific.\u201d \u201cOh, what are you talking about?\u201d exclaimed the young lady. She rose to\nher feet and gazed upon him, round-eyed. \u201cDon\u2019t you understand?\u201d said Maxwell, restively. \u201cI want you to marry\nme. I love you, Miss Leslie. I wanted to tell you, and I snatched a\nminute when things had slackened up a bit. They\u2019re calling me for the\n\u2019phone now. Tell \u2019em to wait a minute, Pitcher. Won\u2019t you, Miss\nLeslie?\u201d The stenographer acted very queerly. At first she seemed overcome with\namazement; then tears flowed from her wondering eyes; and then she\nsmiled sunnily through them, and one of her arms slid tenderly about\nthe broker\u2019s neck. \u201cI know now,\u201d she said, softly. \u201cIt\u2019s this old business that has driven\neverything else out of your head for the time. I was frightened at\nfirst. Don\u2019t you remember, Harvey? We were married last evening at 8\no\u2019clock in the Little Church Around the Corner.\u201d", "words": 255}, {"story": 65, "title": "AFTER TWENTY YEARS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The policeman on the beat moved up the avenue impressively. The\nimpressiveness was habitual and not for show, for spectators were few.\nThe time was barely 10 o\u2019clock at night, but chilly gusts of wind with\na taste of rain in them had well nigh de-peopled the streets. Trying doors as he went, twirling his club with many intricate and\nartful movements, turning now and then to cast his watchful eye adown\nthe pacific thoroughfare, the officer, with his stalwart form and\nslight swagger, made a fine picture of a guardian of the peace. The\nvicinity was one that kept early hours. Now and then you might see the\nlights of a cigar store or of an all-night lunch counter; but the\nmajority of the doors belonged to business places that had long since\nbeen closed. When about midway of a certain block the policeman suddenly slowed his\nwalk. In the doorway of a darkened hardware store a man leaned, with an\nunlighted cigar in his mouth. As the policeman walked up to him the man\nspoke up quickly. \u201cIt\u2019s all right, officer,\u201d he said, reassuringly. \u201cI\u2019m just waiting for\na friend. It\u2019s an appointment made twenty years ago. Sounds a little\nfunny to you, doesn\u2019t it? Well, I\u2019ll explain if you\u2019d like to make\ncertain it\u2019s all straight. About that long ago there used to be a\nrestaurant where this store stands\u2014\u2018Big Joe\u2019 Brady\u2019s restaurant.\u201d \u201cUntil five years ago,\u201d said the policeman. \u201cIt was torn down then.\u201d The man in the doorway struck a match and lit his cigar. The light\nshowed a pale, square-jawed face with keen eyes, and a little white\nscar near his right eyebrow. His scarfpin was a large diamond, oddly\nset.", "words": 287}, {"story": 65, "title": "AFTER TWENTY YEARS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cTwenty years ago to-night,\u201d said the man, \u201cI dined here at \u2018Big Joe\u2019\nBrady\u2019s with Jimmy Wells, my best chum, and the finest chap in the\nworld. He and I were raised here in New York, just like two brothers,\ntogether. I was eighteen and Jimmy was twenty. The next morning I was\nto start for the West to make my fortune. You couldn\u2019t have dragged\nJimmy out of New York; he thought it was the only place on earth. Well,\nwe agreed that night that we would meet here again exactly twenty years\nfrom that date and time, no matter what our conditions might be or from\nwhat distance we might have to come. We figured that in twenty years\neach of us ought to have our destiny worked out and our fortunes made,\nwhatever they were going to be.\u201d \u201cIt sounds pretty interesting,\u201d said the policeman. \u201cRather a long time\nbetween meets, though, it seems to me. Haven\u2019t you heard from your\nfriend since you left?\u201d \u201cWell, yes, for a time we corresponded,\u201d said the other. \u201cBut after a\nyear or two we lost track of each other. You see, the West is a pretty\nbig proposition, and I kept hustling around over it pretty lively. But\nI know Jimmy will meet me here if he\u2019s alive, for he always was the\ntruest, stanchest old chap in the world. He\u2019ll never forget. I came a\nthousand miles to stand in this door to-night, and it\u2019s worth it if my\nold partner turns up.\u201d The waiting man pulled out a handsome watch, the lids of it set with\nsmall diamonds. \u201cThree minutes to ten,\u201d he announced. \u201cIt was exactly ten o\u2019clock when\nwe parted here at the restaurant door.\u201d \u201cDid pretty well out West, didn\u2019t you?\u201d asked the policeman.", "words": 300}, {"story": 65, "title": "AFTER TWENTY YEARS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou bet! I hope Jimmy has done half as well. He was a kind of plodder,\nthough, good fellow as he was. I\u2019ve had to compete with some of the\nsharpest wits going to get my pile. A man gets in a groove in New York.\nIt takes the West to put a razor-edge on him.\u201d The policeman twirled his club and took a step or two. \u201cI\u2019ll be on my way. Hope your friend comes around all right. Going to\ncall time on him sharp?\u201d \u201cI should say not!\u201d said the other. \u201cI\u2019ll give him half an hour at\nleast. If Jimmy is alive on earth he\u2019ll be here by that time. So long,\nofficer.\u201d \u201cGood-night, sir,\u201d said the policeman, passing on along his beat,\ntrying doors as he went. There was now a fine, cold drizzle falling, and the wind had risen from\nits uncertain puffs into a steady blow. The few foot passengers astir\nin that quarter hurried dismally and silently along with coat collars\nturned high and pocketed hands. And in the door of the hardware store\nthe man who had come a thousand miles to fill an appointment, uncertain\nalmost to absurdity, with the friend of his youth, smoked his cigar and\nwaited. About twenty minutes he waited, and then a tall man in a long overcoat,\nwith collar turned up to his ears, hurried across from the opposite\nside of the street. He went directly to the waiting man. \u201cIs that you, Bob?\u201d he asked, doubtfully. \u201cIs that you, Jimmy Wells?\u201d cried the man in the door.", "words": 263}, {"story": 65, "title": "AFTER TWENTY YEARS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cBless my heart!\u201d exclaimed the new arrival, grasping both the other\u2019s\nhands with his own. \u201cIt\u2019s Bob, sure as fate. I was certain I\u2019d find you\nhere if you were still in existence. Well, well, well!\u2014twenty years is\na long time. The old restaurant\u2019s gone, Bob; I wish it had lasted, so\nwe could have had another dinner there. How has the West treated you,\nold man?\u201d \u201cBully; it has given me everything I asked it for. You\u2019ve changed lots,\nJimmy. I never thought you were so tall by two or three inches.\u201d \u201cOh, I grew a bit after I was twenty.\u201d \u201cDoing well in New York, Jimmy?\u201d \u201cModerately. I have a position in one of the city departments. Come on,\nBob; we\u2019ll go around to a place I know of, and have a good long talk\nabout old times.\u201d The two men started up the street, arm in arm. The man from the West,\nhis egotism enlarged by success, was beginning to outline the history\nof his career. The other, submerged in his overcoat, listened with\ninterest. At the corner stood a drug store, brilliant with electric lights. When\nthey came into this glare each of them turned simultaneously to gaze\nupon the other\u2019s face. The man from the West stopped suddenly and released his arm. \u201cYou\u2019re not Jimmy Wells,\u201d he snapped. \u201cTwenty years is a long time, but\nnot long enough to change a man\u2019s nose from a Roman to a pug.\u201d", "words": 244}, {"story": 65, "title": "AFTER TWENTY YEARS", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt sometimes changes a good man into a bad one,\u201d said the tall man.\n\u201cYou\u2019ve been under arrest for ten minutes, \u2018Silky\u2019 Bob. Chicago thinks\nyou may have dropped over our way and wires us she wants to have a chat\nwith you. Going quietly, are you? That\u2019s sensible. Now, before we go on\nto the station here\u2019s a note I was asked to hand you. You may read it\nhere at the window. It\u2019s from Patrolman Wells.\u201d The man from the West unfolded the little piece of paper handed him.\nHis hand was steady when he began to read, but it trembled a little by\nthe time he had finished. The note was rather short. _Bob: I was at the appointed place on time. When you struck the match\nto light your cigar I saw it was the face of the man wanted in Chicago.\nSomehow I couldn\u2019t do it myself, so I went around and got a plain\nclothes man to do the job. JIMMY._", "words": 167}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Mr. Towers Chandler was pressing his evening suit in his hall bedroom.\nOne iron was heating on a small gas stove; the other was being pushed\nvigorously back and forth to make the desirable crease that would be\nseen later on extending in straight lines from Mr. Chandler\u2019s patent\nleather shoes to the edge of his low-cut vest. So much of the hero\u2019s\ntoilet may be intrusted to our confidence. The remainder may be guessed\nby those whom genteel poverty has driven to ignoble expedient. Our next\nview of him shall be as he descends the steps of his lodging-house\nimmaculately and correctly clothed; calm, assured, handsome\u2014in\nappearance the typical New York young clubman setting out, slightly\nbored, to inaugurate the pleasures of the evening. Chandler\u2019s honorarium was $18 per week. He was employed in the office\nof an architect. He was twenty-two years old; he considered\narchitecture to be truly an art; and he honestly believed\u2014though he\nwould not have dared to admit it in New York\u2014that the Flatiron Building\nwas inferior in design to the great cathedral in Milan. Out of each week\u2019s earnings Chandler set aside $1. At the end of each\nten weeks with the extra capital thus accumulated, he purchased one\ngentleman\u2019s evening from the bargain counter of stingy old Father Time.\nHe arrayed himself in the regalia of millionaires and presidents; he\ntook himself to the quarter where life is brightest and showiest, and\nthere dined with taste and luxury. With ten dollars a man may, for a\nfew hours, play the wealthy idler to perfection. The sum is ample for a\nwell-considered meal, a bottle bearing a respectable label,\ncommensurate tips, a smoke, cab fare and the ordinary etceteras.", "words": 286}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "This one delectable evening culled from each dull seventy was to\nChandler a source of renascent bliss. To the society bud comes but one\nd\u00e9but; it stands alone sweet in her memory when her hair has whitened;\nbut to Chandler each ten weeks brought a joy as keen, as thrilling, as\nnew as the first had been. To sit among _bon vivants_ under palms in\nthe swirl of concealed music, to look upon the _habitu\u00e9s_ of such a\nparadise and to be looked upon by them\u2014what is a girl\u2019s first dance and\nshort-sleeved tulle compared with this? Up Broadway Chandler moved with the vespertine dress parade. For this\nevening he was an exhibit as well as a gazer. For the next sixty-nine\nevenings he would be dining in cheviot and worsted at dubious _table\nd\u2019h\u00f4tes_, at whirlwind lunch counters, on sandwiches and beer in his\nhall-bedroom. He was willing to do that, for he was a true son of the\ngreat city of razzle-dazzle, and to him one evening in the limelight\nmade up for many dark ones. Chandler protracted his walk until the Forties began to intersect the\ngreat and glittering primrose way, for the evening was yet young, and\nwhen one is of the _beau monde_ only one day in seventy, one loves to\nprotract the pleasure. Eyes bright, sinister, curious, admiring,\nprovocative, alluring were bent upon him, for his garb and air\nproclaimed him a devotee to the hour of solace and pleasure. At a certain corner he came to a standstill, proposing to himself the\nquestion of turning back toward the showy and fashionable restaurant in\nwhich he usually dined on the evenings of his especial luxury. Just\nthen a girl scuddled lightly around the corner, slipped on a patch of\nicy snow and fell plump upon the sidewalk.", "words": 303}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Chandler assisted her to her feet with instant and solicitous courtesy.\nThe girl hobbled to the wall of the building, leaned against it, and\nthanked him demurely. \u201cI think my ankle is strained,\u201d she said. \u201cIt twisted when I fell.\u201d \u201cDoes it pain you much?\u201d inquired Chandler. \u201cOnly when I rest my weight upon it. I think I will be able to walk in\na minute or two.\u201d \u201cIf I can be of any further service,\u201d suggested the young man, \u201cI will\ncall a cab, or\u2014\u201d \u201cThank you,\u201d said the girl, softly but heartily. \u201cI am sure you need\nnot trouble yourself any further. It was so awkward of me. And my shoe\nheels are horridly common-sense; I can\u2019t blame them at all.\u201d Chandler looked at the girl and found her swiftly drawing his interest.\nShe was pretty in a refined way; and her eye was both merry and kind.\nShe was inexpensively clothed in a plain black dress that suggested a\nsort of uniform such as shop girls wear. Her glossy dark-brown hair\nshowed its coils beneath a cheap hat of black straw whose only ornament\nwas a velvet ribbon and bow. She could have posed as a model for the\nself-respecting working girl of the best type. A sudden idea came into the head of the young architect. He would ask\nthis girl to dine with him. Here was the element that his splendid but\nsolitary periodic feasts had lacked. His brief season of elegant luxury\nwould be doubly enjoyable if he could add to it a lady\u2019s society. This\ngirl was a lady, he was sure\u2014her manner and speech settled that. And in\nspite of her extremely plain attire he felt that he would be pleased to\nsit at table with her.", "words": 295}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "These thoughts passed swiftly through his mind, and he decided to ask\nher. It was a breach of etiquette, of course, but oftentimes\nwage-earning girls waived formalities in matters of this kind. They\nwere generally shrewd judges of men; and thought better of their own\njudgment than they did of useless conventions. His ten dollars,\ndiscreetly expended, would enable the two to dine very well indeed. The\ndinner would no doubt be a wonderful experience thrown into the dull\nroutine of the girl\u2019s life; and her lively appreciation of it would add\nto his own triumph and pleasure. \u201cI think,\u201d he said to her, with frank gravity, \u201cthat your foot needs a\nlonger rest than you suppose. Now, I am going to suggest a way in which\nyou can give it that and at the same time do me a favour. I was on my\nway to dine all by my lonely self when you came tumbling around the\ncorner. You come with me and we\u2019ll have a cozy dinner and a pleasant\ntalk together, and by that time your game ankle will carry you home\nvery nicely, I am sure.\u201d The girl looked quickly up into Chandler\u2019s clear, pleasant countenance.\nHer eyes twinkled once very brightly, and then she smiled ingenuously. \u201cBut we don\u2019t know each other\u2014it wouldn\u2019t be right, would it?\u201d she\nsaid, doubtfully. \u201cThere is nothing wrong about it,\u201d said the young man, candidly. \u201cI\u2019ll\nintroduce myself\u2014permit me\u2014Mr. Towers Chandler. After our dinner, which\nI will try to make as pleasant as possible, I will bid you\ngood-evening, or attend you safely to your door, whichever you prefer.\u201d \u201cBut, dear me!\u201d said the girl, with a glance at Chandler\u2019s faultless\nattire. \u201cIn this old dress and hat!\u201d \u201cNever mind that,\u201d said Chandler, cheerfully. \u201cI\u2019m sure you look more\ncharming in them than any one we shall see in the most elaborate dinner\ntoilette.\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cMy ankle does hurt yet,\u201d admitted the girl, attempting a limping step.\n\u201cI think I will accept your invitation, Mr. Chandler. You may call\nme\u2014Miss Marian.\u201d \u201cCome then, Miss Marian,\u201d said the young architect, gaily, but with\nperfect courtesy; \u201cyou will not have far to walk. There is a very\nrespectable and good restaurant in the next block. You will have to\nlean on my arm\u2014so\u2014and walk slowly. It is lonely dining all by one\u2019s\nself. I\u2019m just a little bit glad that you slipped on the ice.\u201d When the two were established at a well-appointed table, with a\npromising waiter hovering in attendance, Chandler began to experience\nthe real joy that his regular outing always brought to him. The restaurant was not so showy or pretentious as the one further down\nBroadway, which he always preferred, but it was nearly so. The tables\nwere well filled with prosperous-looking diners, there was a good\norchestra, playing softly enough to make conversation a possible\npleasure, and the cuisine and service were beyond criticism. His\ncompanion, even in her cheap hat and dress, held herself with an air\nthat added distinction to the natural beauty of her face and figure.\nAnd it is certain that she looked at Chandler, with his animated but\nself-possessed manner and his kindling and frank blue eyes, with\nsomething not far from admiration in her own charming face.", "words": 231}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Then it was that the Madness of Manhattan, the frenzy of Fuss and\nFeathers, the Bacillus of Brag, the Provincial Plague of Pose seized\nupon Towers Chandler. He was on Broadway, surrounded by pomp and style,\nand there were eyes to look at him. On the stage of that comedy he had\nassumed to play the one-night part of a butterfly of fashion and an\nidler of means and taste. He was dressed for the part, and all his good\nangels had not the power to prevent him from acting it. So he began to prate to Miss Marian of clubs, of teas, of golf and\nriding and kennels and cotillions and tours abroad and threw out hints\nof a yacht lying at Larchmont. He could see that she was vastly\nimpressed by this vague talk, so he endorsed his pose by random\ninsinuations concerning great wealth, and mentioned familiarly a few\nnames that are handled reverently by the proletariat. It was Chandler\u2019s\nshort little day, and he was wringing from it the best that could be\nhad, as he saw it. And yet once or twice he saw the pure gold of this\ngirl shine through the mist that his egotism had raised between him and\nall objects. \u201cThis way of living that you speak of,\u201d she said, \u201csounds so futile and\npurposeless. Haven\u2019t you any work to do in the world that might\ninterest you more?\u201d \u201cMy dear Miss Marian,\u201d he exclaimed\u2014\u201cwork! Think of dressing every day\nfor dinner, of making half a dozen calls in an afternoon\u2014with a\npoliceman at every corner ready to jump into your auto and take you to\nthe station, if you get up any greater speed than a donkey cart\u2019s gait.\nWe do-nothings are the hardest workers in the land.\u201d", "words": 298}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The dinner was concluded, the waiter generously fed, and the two walked\nout to the corner where they had met. Miss Marian walked very well now;\nher limp was scarcely noticeable. \u201cThank you for a nice time,\u201d she said, frankly. \u201cI must run home now. I\nliked the dinner very much, Mr. Chandler.\u201d He shook hands with her, smiling cordially, and said something about a\ngame of bridge at his club. He watched her for a moment, walking rather\nrapidly eastward, and then he found a cab to drive him slowly homeward. In his chilly bedroom Chandler laid away his evening clothes for a\nsixty-nine days\u2019 rest. He went about it thoughtfully. \u201cThat was a stunning girl,\u201d he said to himself. \u201cShe\u2019s all right, too,\nI\u2019d be sworn, even if she does have to work. Perhaps if I\u2019d told her\nthe truth instead of all that razzle-dazzle we might\u2014but, confound it!\nI had to play up to my clothes.\u201d Thus spoke the brave who was born and reared in the wigwams of the\ntribe of the Manhattans. The girl, after leaving her entertainer, sped swiftly cross-town until\nshe arrived at a handsome and sedate mansion two squares to the east,\nfacing on that avenue which is the highway of Mammon and the auxiliary\ngods. Here she entered hurriedly and ascended to a room where a\nhandsome young lady in an elaborate house dress was looking anxiously\nout the window. \u201cOh, you madcap!\u201d exclaimed the elder girl, when the other entered.\n\u201cWhen will you quit frightening us this way? It is two hours since you\nran out in that rag of an old dress and Marie\u2019s hat. Mamma has been so\nalarmed. She sent Louis in the auto to try to find you. You are a bad,\nthoughtless Puss.\u201d The elder girl touched a button, and a maid came in a moment. \u201cMarie, tell mamma that Miss Marian has returned.\u201d", "words": 319}, {"story": 66, "title": "LOST ON DRESS PARADE", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cDon\u2019t scold, sister. I only ran down to Mme. Theo\u2019s to tell her to use\nmauve insertion instead of pink. My costume and Marie\u2019s hat were just\nwhat I needed. Every one thought I was a shopgirl, I am sure.\u201d \u201cDinner is over, dear; you stayed so late.\u201d \u201cI know. I slipped on the sidewalk and turned my ankle. I could not\nwalk, so I hobbled into a restaurant and sat there until I was better.\nThat is why I was so long.\u201d The two girls sat in the window seat, looking out at the lights and the\nstream of hurrying vehicles in the avenue. The younger one cuddled down\nwith her head in her sister\u2019s lap. \u201cWe will have to marry some day,\u201d she said dreamily\u2014\u201cboth of us. We\nhave so much money that we will not be allowed to disappoint the\npublic. Do you want me to tell you the kind of a man I could love,\nSis?\u201d \u201cGo on, you scatterbrain,\u201d smiled the other. \u201cI could love a man with dark and kind blue eyes, who is gentle and\nrespectful to poor girls, who is handsome and good and does not try to\nflirt. But I could love him only if he had an ambition, an object, some\nwork to do in the world. I would not care how poor he was if I could\nhelp him build his way up. But, sister dear, the kind of man we always\nmeet\u2014the man who lives an idle life between society and his clubs\u2014I\ncould not love a man like that, even if his eyes were blue and he were\never so kind to poor girls whom he met in the street.\u201d", "words": 283}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "It was neither the season nor the hour when the Park had frequenters;\nand it is likely that the young lady, who was seated on one of the\nbenches at the side of the walk, had merely obeyed a sudden impulse to\nsit for a while and enjoy a foretaste of coming Spring. She rested there, pensive and still. A certain melancholy that touched\nher countenance must have been of recent birth, for it had not yet\naltered the fine and youthful contours of her cheek, nor subdued the\narch though resolute curve of her lips. A tall young man came striding through the park along the path near\nwhich she sat. Behind him tagged a boy carrying a suit-case. At sight\nof the young lady, the man\u2019s face changed to red and back to pale\nagain. He watched her countenance as he drew nearer, with hope and\nanxiety mingled on his own. He passed within a few yards of her, but he\nsaw no evidence that she was aware of his presence or existence. Some fifty yards further on he suddenly stopped and sat on a bench at\none side. The boy dropped the suit-case and stared at him with\nwondering, shrewd eyes. The young man took out his handkerchief and\nwiped his brow. It was a good handkerchief, a good brow, and the young\nman was good to look at. He said to the boy:", "words": 237}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cI want you to take a message to that young lady on that bench. Tell\nher I am on my way to the station, to leave for San Francisco, where I\nshall join that Alaska moose-hunting expedition. Tell her that, since\nshe has commanded me neither to speak nor to write to her, I take this\nmeans of making one last appeal to her sense of justice, for the sake\nof what has been. Tell her that to condemn and discard one who has not\ndeserved such treatment, without giving him her reasons or a chance to\nexplain is contrary to her nature as I believe it to be. Tell her that\nI have thus, to a certain degree, disobeyed her injunctions, in the\nhope that she may yet be inclined to see justice done. Go, and tell her\nthat.\u201d The young man dropped a half-dollar into the boy\u2019s hand. The boy looked\nat him for a moment with bright, canny eyes out of a dirty, intelligent\nface, and then set off at a run. He approached the lady on the bench a\nlittle doubtfully, but unembarrassed. He touched the brim of the old\nplaid bicycle cap perched on the back of his head. The lady looked at\nhim coolly, without prejudice or favour. \u201cLady,\u201d he said, \u201cdat gent on de oder bench sent yer a song and dance\nby me. If yer don\u2019t know de guy, and he\u2019s tryin\u2019 to do de Johnny act,\nsay de word, and I\u2019ll call a cop in t\u2019ree minutes. If yer does know\nhim, and he\u2019s on de square, w\u2019y I\u2019ll spiel yer de bunch of hot air he\nsent yer.\u201d The young lady betrayed a faint interest.", "words": 285}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cA song and dance!\u201d she said, in a deliberate sweet voice that seemed\nto clothe her words in a diaphanous garment of impalpable irony. \u201cA new\nidea\u2014in the troubadour line, I suppose. I\u2014used to know the gentleman\nwho sent you, so I think it will hardly be necessary to call the\npolice. You may execute your song and dance, but do not sing too\nloudly. It is a little early yet for open-air vaudeville, and we might\nattract attention.\u201d \u201cAwe,\u201d said the boy, with a shrug down the length of him, \u201cyer know\nwhat I mean, lady. \u2019Tain\u2019t a turn, it\u2019s wind. He told me to tell yer\nhe\u2019s got his collars and cuffs in dat grip for a scoot clean out to\n\u2019Frisco. Den he\u2019s goin\u2019 to shoot snow-birds in de Klondike. He says yer\ntold him not to send \u2019round no more pink notes nor come hangin\u2019 over de\ngarden gate, and he takes dis means of puttin\u2019 yer wise. He says yer\nrefereed him out like a has-been, and never give him no chance to kick\nat de decision. He says yer swiped him, and never said why.\u201d The slightly awakened interest in the young lady\u2019s eyes did not abate.\nPerhaps it was caused by either the originality or the audacity of the\nsnow-bird hunter, in thus circumventing her express commands against\nthe ordinary modes of communication. She fixed her eye on a statue\nstanding disconsolate in the dishevelled park, and spoke into the\ntransmitter:", "words": 248}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cTell the gentleman that I need not repeat to him a description of my\nideals. He knows what they have been and what they still are. So far as\nthey touch on this case, absolute loyalty and truth are the ones\nparamount. Tell him that I have studied my own heart as well as one\ncan, and I know its weakness as well as I do its needs. That is why I\ndecline to hear his pleas, whatever they may be. I did not condemn him\nthrough hearsay or doubtful evidence, and that is why I made no charge.\nBut, since he persists in hearing what he already well knows, you may\nconvey the matter. \u201cTell him that I entered the conservatory that evening from the rear,\nto cut a rose for my mother. Tell him I saw him and Miss Ashburton\nbeneath the pink oleander. The tableau was pretty, but the pose and\njuxtaposition were too eloquent and evident to require explanation. I\nleft the conservatory, and, at the same time, the rose and my ideal.\nYou may carry that song and dance to your impresario.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m shy on one word, lady. Jux\u2014jux\u2014put me wise on dat, will yer?\u201d \u201cJuxtaposition\u2014or you may call it propinquity\u2014or, if you like, being\nrather too near for one maintaining the position of an ideal.\u201d The gravel spun from beneath the boy\u2019s feet. He stood by the other\nbench. The man\u2019s eyes interrogated him, hungrily. The boy\u2019s were\nshining with the impersonal zeal of the translator.", "words": 252}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "\u201cDe lady says dat she\u2019s on to de fact dat gals is dead easy when a\nfeller comes spielin\u2019 ghost stories and tryin\u2019 to make up, and dat\u2019s\nwhy she won\u2019t listen to no soft-soap. She says she caught yer dead to\nrights, huggin\u2019 a bunch o\u2019 calico in de hot-house. She side-stepped in\nto pull some posies and yer was squeezin\u2019 de oder gal to beat de band.\nShe says it looked cute, all right all right, but it made her sick. She\nsays yer better git busy, and make a sneak for de train.\u201d The young man gave a low whistle and his eyes flashed with a sudden\nthought. His hand flew to the inside pocket of his coat, and drew out a\nhandful of letters. Selecting one, he handed it to the boy, following\nit with a silver dollar from his vest-pocket. \u201cGive that letter to the lady,\u201d he said, \u201cand ask her to read it. Tell\nher that it should explain the situation. Tell her that, if she had\nmingled a little trust with her conception of the ideal, much heartache\nmight have been avoided. Tell her that the loyalty she prizes so much\nhas never wavered. Tell her I am waiting for an answer.\u201d The messenger stood before the lady. \u201cDe gent says he\u2019s had de ski-bunk put on him widout no cause. He says\nhe\u2019s no bum guy; and, lady, yer read dat letter, and I\u2019ll bet yer he\u2019s\na white sport, all right.\u201d The young lady unfolded the letter; somewhat doubtfully, and read it.", "words": 261}, {"story": 67, "title": "BY COURIER", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Dear Dr. Arnold: I want to thank you for your most kind and opportune\naid to my daughter last Friday evening, when she was overcome by an\nattack of her old heart-trouble in the conservatory at Mrs. Waldron\u2019s\nreception. Had you not been near to catch her as she fell and to render\nproper attention, we might have lost her. I would be glad if you would\ncall and undertake the treatment of her case. Gratefully yours, Robert Ashburton. The young lady refolded the letter, and handed it to the boy. \u201cDe gent wants an answer,\u201d said the messenger. \u201cWot\u2019s de word?\u201d The lady\u2019s eyes suddenly flashed on him, bright, smiling and wet. \u201cTell that guy on the other bench,\u201d she said, with a happy, tremulous\nlaugh, \u201cthat his girl wants him.\u201d", "words": 132}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Restless, shifting, fugacious as time itself is a certain vast bulk of\nthe population of the red brick district of the lower West Side.\nHomeless, they have a hundred homes. They flit from furnished room to\nfurnished room, transients forever\u2014transients in abode, transients in\nheart and mind. They sing \u201cHome, Sweet Home\u201d in ragtime; they carry\ntheir _lares et penates_ in a bandbox; their vine is entwined about a\npicture hat; a rubber plant is their fig tree. Hence the houses of this district, having had a thousand dwellers,\nshould have a thousand tales to tell, mostly dull ones, no doubt; but\nit would be strange if there could not be found a ghost or two in the\nwake of all these vagrant guests. One evening after dark a young man prowled among these crumbling red\nmansions, ringing their bells. At the twelfth he rested his lean\nhand-baggage upon the step and wiped the dust from his hatband and\nforehead. The bell sounded faint and far away in some remote, hollow\ndepths. To the door of this, the twelfth house whose bell he had rung, came a\nhousekeeper who made him think of an unwholesome, surfeited worm that\nhad eaten its nut to a hollow shell and now sought to fill the vacancy\nwith edible lodgers. He asked if there was a room to let. \u201cCome in,\u201d said the housekeeper. Her voice came from her throat; her\nthroat seemed lined with fur. \u201cI have the third floor back, vacant\nsince a week back. Should you wish to look at it?\u201d", "words": 260}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The young man followed her up the stairs. A faint light from no\nparticular source mitigated the shadows of the halls. They trod\nnoiselessly upon a stair carpet that its own loom would have forsworn.\nIt seemed to have become vegetable; to have degenerated in that rank,\nsunless air to lush lichen or spreading moss that grew in patches to\nthe staircase and was viscid under the foot like organic matter. At\neach turn of the stairs were vacant niches in the wall. Perhaps plants\nhad once been set within them. If so they had died in that foul and\ntainted air. It may be that statues of the saints had stood there, but\nit was not difficult to conceive that imps and devils had dragged them\nforth in the darkness and down to the unholy depths of some furnished\npit below. \u201cThis is the room,\u201d said the housekeeper, from her furry throat. \u201cIt\u2019s\na nice room. It ain\u2019t often vacant. I had some most elegant people in\nit last summer\u2014no trouble at all, and paid in advance to the minute.\nThe water\u2019s at the end of the hall. Sprowls and Mooney kept it three\nmonths. They done a vaudeville sketch. Miss B\u2019retta Sprowls\u2014you may\nhave heard of her\u2014Oh, that was just the stage names\u2014right there over\nthe dresser is where the marriage certificate hung, framed. The gas is\nhere, and you see there is plenty of closet room. It\u2019s a room everybody\nlikes. It never stays idle long.\u201d \u201cDo you have many theatrical people rooming here?\u201d asked the young man. \u201cThey comes and goes. A good proportion of my lodgers is connected with\nthe theatres. Yes, sir, this is the theatrical district. Actor people\nnever stays long anywhere. I get my share. Yes, they comes and they\ngoes.\u201d", "words": 299}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "He engaged the room, paying for a week in advance. He was tired, he\nsaid, and would take possession at once. He counted out the money. The\nroom had been made ready, she said, even to towels and water. As the\nhousekeeper moved away he put, for the thousandth time, the question\nthat he carried at the end of his tongue. \u201cA young girl\u2014Miss Vashner\u2014Miss Eloise Vashner\u2014do you remember such a\none among your lodgers? She would be singing on the stage, most likely.\nA fair girl, of medium height and slender, with reddish, gold hair and\na dark mole near her left eyebrow.\u201d \u201cNo, I don\u2019t remember the name. Them stage people has names they change\nas often as their rooms. They comes and they goes. No, I don\u2019t call\nthat one to mind.\u201d No. Always no. Five months of ceaseless interrogation and the\ninevitable negative. So much time spent by day in questioning managers,\nagents, schools and choruses; by night among the audiences of theatres\nfrom all-star casts down to music halls so low that he dreaded to find\nwhat he most hoped for. He who had loved her best had tried to find\nher. He was sure that since her disappearance from home this great,\nwater-girt city held her somewhere, but it was like a monstrous\nquicksand, shifting its particles constantly, with no foundation, its\nupper granules of to-day buried to-morrow in ooze and slime. The furnished room received its latest guest with a first glow of\npseudo-hospitality, a hectic, haggard, perfunctory welcome like the\nspecious smile of a demirep. The sophistical comfort came in reflected\ngleams from the decayed furniture, the ragged brocade upholstery of a\ncouch and two chairs, a foot-wide cheap pier glass between the two\nwindows, from one or two gilt picture frames and a brass bedstead in a\ncorner.", "words": 307}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The guest reclined, inert, upon a chair, while the room, confused in\nspeech as though it were an apartment in Babel, tried to discourse to\nhim of its divers tenantry. A polychromatic rug like some brilliant-flowered rectangular, tropical\nislet lay surrounded by a billowy sea of soiled matting. Upon the\ngay-papered wall were those pictures that pursue the homeless one from\nhouse to house\u2014The Huguenot Lovers, The First Quarrel, The Wedding\nBreakfast, Psyche at the Fountain. The mantel\u2019s chastely severe outline\nwas ingloriously veiled behind some pert drapery drawn rakishly askew\nlike the sashes of the Amazonian ballet. Upon it was some desolate\nflotsam cast aside by the room\u2019s marooned when a lucky sail had borne\nthem to a fresh port\u2014a trifling vase or two, pictures of actresses, a\nmedicine bottle, some stray cards out of a deck.", "words": 138}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "One by one, as the characters of a cryptograph become explicit, the\nlittle signs left by the furnished room\u2019s procession of guests\ndeveloped a significance. The threadbare space in the rug in front of\nthe dresser told that lovely woman had marched in the throng. Tiny\nfinger prints on the wall spoke of little prisoners trying to feel\ntheir way to sun and air. A splattered stain, raying like the shadow of\na bursting bomb, witnessed where a hurled glass or bottle had\nsplintered with its contents against the wall. Across the pier glass\nhad been scrawled with a diamond in staggering letters the name\n\u201cMarie.\u201d It seemed that the succession of dwellers in the furnished\nroom had turned in fury\u2014perhaps tempted beyond forbearance by its\ngarish coldness\u2014and wreaked upon it their passions. The furniture was\nchipped and bruised; the couch, distorted by bursting springs, seemed a\nhorrible monster that had been slain during the stress of some\ngrotesque convulsion. Some more potent upheaval had cloven a great\nslice from the marble mantel. Each plank in the floor owned its\nparticular cant and shriek as from a separate and individual agony. It\nseemed incredible that all this malice and injury had been wrought upon\nthe room by those who had called it for a time their home; and yet it\nmay have been the cheated home instinct surviving blindly, the\nresentful rage at false household gods that had kindled their wrath. A\nhut that is our own we can sweep and adorn and cherish.", "words": 254}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The young tenant in the chair allowed these thoughts to file,\nsoft-shod, through his mind, while there drifted into the room\nfurnished sounds and furnished scents. He heard in one room a tittering\nand incontinent, slack laughter; in others the monologue of a scold,\nthe rattling of dice, a lullaby, and one crying dully; above him a\nbanjo tinkled with spirit. Doors banged somewhere; the elevated trains\nroared intermittently; a cat yowled miserably upon a back fence. And he\nbreathed the breath of the house\u2014a dank savour rather than a smell\u2014a\ncold, musty effluvium as from underground vaults mingled with the\nreeking exhalations of linoleum and mildewed and rotten woodwork. Then, suddenly, as he rested there, the room was filled with the\nstrong, sweet odour of mignonette. It came as upon a single buffet of\nwind with such sureness and fragrance and emphasis that it almost\nseemed a living visitant. And the man cried aloud: \u201cWhat, dear?\u201d as if\nhe had been called, and sprang up and faced about. The rich odour clung\nto him and wrapped him around. He reached out his arms for it, all his\nsenses for the time confused and commingled. How could one be\nperemptorily called by an odour? Surely it must have been a sound. But,\nwas it not the sound that had touched, that had caressed him? \u201cShe has been in this room,\u201d he cried, and he sprang to wrest from it a\ntoken, for he knew he would recognize the smallest thing that had\nbelonged to her or that she had touched. This enveloping scent of\nmignonette, the odour that she had loved and made her own\u2014whence came\nit?", "words": 277}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The room had been but carelessly set in order. Scattered upon the\nflimsy dresser scarf were half a dozen hairpins\u2014those discreet,\nindistinguishable friends of womankind, feminine of gender, infinite of\nmood and uncommunicative of tense. These he ignored, conscious of their\ntriumphant lack of identity. Ransacking the drawers of the dresser he\ncame upon a discarded, tiny, ragged handkerchief. He pressed it to his\nface. It was racy and insolent with heliotrope; he hurled it to the\nfloor. In another drawer he found odd buttons, a theatre programme, a\npawnbroker\u2019s card, two lost marshmallows, a book on the divination of\ndreams. In the last was a woman\u2019s black satin hair bow, which halted\nhim, poised between ice and fire. But the black satin hair-bow also is\nfemininity\u2019s demure, impersonal, common ornament, and tells no tales. And then he traversed the room like a hound on the scent, skimming the\nwalls, considering the corners of the bulging matting on his hands and\nknees, rummaging mantel and tables, the curtains and hangings, the\ndrunken cabinet in the corner, for a visible sign, unable to perceive\nthat she was there beside, around, against, within, above him, clinging\nto him, wooing him, calling him so poignantly through the finer senses\nthat even his grosser ones became cognisant of the call. Once again he\nanswered loudly: \u201cYes, dear!\u201d and turned, wild-eyed, to gaze on\nvacancy, for he could not yet discern form and colour and love and\noutstretched arms in the odour of mignonette. Oh, God! whence that\nodour, and since when have odours had a voice to call? Thus he groped.", "words": 267}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "He burrowed in crevices and corners, and found corks and cigarettes.\nThese he passed in passive contempt. But once he found in a fold of the\nmatting a half-smoked cigar, and this he ground beneath his heel with a\ngreen and trenchant oath. He sifted the room from end to end. He found\ndreary and ignoble small records of many a peripatetic tenant; but of\nher whom he sought, and who may have lodged there, and whose spirit\nseemed 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\ncrack of light. She came out to his knock. He smothered his excitement\nas best he could. \u201cWill you tell me, madam,\u201d he besought her, \u201cwho occupied the room I\nhave before I came?\u201d \u201cYes, sir. I can tell you again. \u2019Twas Sprowls and Mooney, as I said.\nMiss B\u2019retta Sprowls it was in the theatres, but Missis Mooney she was.\nMy house is well known for respectability. The marriage certificate\nhung, framed, on a nail over\u2014\u201d \u201cWhat kind of a lady was Miss Sprowls\u2014in looks, I mean?\u201d \u201cWhy, black-haired, sir, short, and stout, with a comical face. They\nleft a week ago Tuesday.\u201d \u201cAnd before they occupied it?\u201d \u201cWhy, there was a single gentleman connected with the draying business.\nHe left owing me a week. Before him was Missis Crowder and her two\nchildren, that stayed four months; and back of them was old Mr. Doyle,\nwhose sons paid for him. He kept the room six months. That goes back a\nyear, sir, and further I do not remember.\u201d He thanked her and crept back to his room. The room was dead. The\nessence that had vivified it was gone. The perfume of mignonette had\ndeparted. In its place was the old, stale odour of mouldy house\nfurniture, of atmosphere in storage.", "words": 320}, {"story": 68, "title": "THE FURNISHED ROOM", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The ebbing of his hope drained his faith. He sat staring at the yellow,\nsinging gaslight. Soon he walked to the bed and began to tear the\nsheets into strips. With the blade of his knife he drove them tightly\ninto every crevice around windows and door. When all was snug and taut\nhe turned out the light, turned the gas full on again and laid himself\ngratefully upon the bed. It was Mrs. McCool\u2019s night to go with the can for beer. So she fetched\nit and sat with Mrs. Purdy in one of those subterranean retreats where\nhouse-keepers foregather and the worm dieth seldom. \u201cI rented out my third floor, back, this evening,\u201d said Mrs. Purdy,\nacross a fine circle of foam. \u201cA young man took it. He went up to bed\ntwo hours ago.\u201d \u201cNow, did ye, Mrs. Purdy, ma\u2019am?\u201d said Mrs. McCool, with intense\nadmiration. \u201cYou do be a wonder for rentin\u2019 rooms of that kind. And did\nye tell him, then?\u201d she concluded in a husky whisper, laden with\nmystery. \u201cRooms,\u201d said Mrs. Purdy, in her furriest tones, \u201care furnished for to\nrent. I did not tell him, Mrs. McCool.\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis right ye are, ma\u2019am; \u2019tis by renting rooms we kape alive. Ye have\nthe rale sense for business, ma\u2019am. There be many people will rayjict\nthe rentin\u2019 of a room if they be tould a suicide has been after dyin\u2019\nin the bed of it.\u201d \u201cAs you say, we has our living to be making,\u201d remarked Mrs. Purdy. \u201cYis, ma\u2019am; \u2019tis true. \u2019Tis just one wake ago this day I helped ye lay\nout the third floor, back. A pretty slip of a colleen she was to be\nkillin\u2019 herself wid the gas\u2014a swate little face she had, Mrs. Purdy,\nma\u2019am.\u201d", "words": 297}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "If you do not know Bogle\u2019s Chop House and Family Restaurant it is your\nloss. For if you are one of the fortunate ones who dine expensively you\nshould be interested to know how the other half consumes provisions.\nAnd if you belong to the half to whom waiters\u2019 checks are things of\nmoment, you should know Bogle\u2019s, for there you get your money\u2019s\nworth\u2014in quantity, at least. Bogle\u2019s is situated in that highway of _bourgeoisie_, that boulevard of\nBrown-Jones-and-Robinson, Eighth Avenue. There are two rows of tables\nin the room, six in each row. On each table is a caster-stand,\ncontaining cruets of condiments and seasons. From the pepper cruet you\nmay shake a cloud of something tasteless and melancholy, like volcanic\ndust. From the salt cruet you may expect nothing. Though a man should\nextract a sanguinary stream from the pallid turnip, yet will his\nprowess be balked when he comes to wrest salt from Bogle\u2019s cruets. Also\nupon each table stands the counterfeit of that benign sauce made \u201cfrom\nthe recipe of a nobleman in India.\u201d At the cashier\u2019s desk sits Bogle, cold, sordid, slow, smouldering, and\ntakes your money. Behind a mountain of toothpicks he makes your change,\nfiles your check, and ejects at you, like a toad, a word about the\nweather. Beyond a corroboration of his meteorological statement you\nwould better not venture. You are not Bogle\u2019s friend; you are a fed,\ntransient customer, and you and he may not meet again until the blowing\nof Gabriel\u2019s dinner horn. So take your change and go\u2014to the devil if\nyou like. There you have Bogle\u2019s sentiments. The needs of Bogle\u2019s customers were supplied by two waitresses and a\nVoice. One of the waitresses was named Aileen. She was tall, beautiful,\nlively, gracious and learned in persiflage. Her other name? There was\nno more necessity for another name at Bogle\u2019s than there was for\nfinger-bowls.", "words": 319}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The name of the other waitress was Tildy. Why do you suggest Matilda?\nPlease listen this time\u2014Tildy\u2014Tildy. Tildy was dumpy, plain-faced, and\ntoo anxious to please to please. Repeat the last clause to yourself\nonce or twice, and make the acquaintance of the duplicate infinite. The Voice at Bogle\u2019s was invisible. It came from the kitchen, and did\nnot shine in the way of originality. It was a heathen Voice, and\ncontented itself with vain repetitions of exclamations emitted by the\nwaitresses concerning food. Will it tire you to be told again that Aileen was beautiful? Had she\ndonned a few hundred dollars\u2019 worth of clothes and joined the Easter\nparade, and had you seen her, you would have hastened to say so\nyourself. The customers at Bogle\u2019s were her slaves. Six tables full she could\nwait upon at once. They who were in a hurry restrained their impatience\nfor the joy of merely gazing upon her swiftly moving, graceful figure.\nThey who had finished eating ate more that they might continue in the\nlight of her smiles. Every man there\u2014and they were mostly men\u2014tried to\nmake his impression upon her. Aileen could successfully exchange repartee against a dozen at once.\nAnd every smile that she sent forth lodged, like pellets from a\nscatter-gun, in as many hearts. And all this while she would be\nperforming astounding feats with orders of pork and beans, pot roasts,\nham-and, sausage-and-the-wheats, and any quantity of things on the iron\nand in the pan and straight up and on the side. With all this feasting\nand flirting and merry exchange of wit Bogle\u2019s came mighty near being a\nsalon, with Aileen for its Madame R\u00e9camier.", "words": 281}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "If the transients were entranced by the fascinating Aileen, the\nregulars were her adorers. There was much rivalry among many of the\nsteady customers. Aileen could have had an engagement every evening. At\nleast twice a week some one took her to a theatre or to a dance. One\nstout gentleman whom she and Tildy had privately christened \u201cThe Hog\u201d\npresented her with a turquoise ring. Another one known as \u201cFreshy,\u201d who\nrode on the Traction Company\u2019s repair wagon, was going to give her a\npoodle as soon as his brother got the hauling contract in the Ninth.\nAnd the man who always ate spareribs and spinach and said he was a\nstock broker asked her to go to \u201cParsifal\u201d with him. \u201cI don\u2019t know where this place is,\u201d said Aileen while talking it over\nwith Tildy, \u201cbut the wedding-ring\u2019s got to be on before I put a stitch\ninto a travelling dress\u2014ain\u2019t that right? Well, I guess!\u201d But, Tildy! In steaming, chattering, cabbage-scented Bogle\u2019s there was almost a\nheart tragedy. Tildy with the blunt nose, the hay-coloured hair, the\nfreckled skin, the bag-o\u2019-meal figure, had never had an admirer. Not a\nman followed her with his eyes when she went to and fro in the\nrestaurant save now and then when they glared with the beast-hunger for\nfood. None of them bantered her gaily to coquettish interchanges of\nwit. None of them loudly \u201cjollied\u201d her of mornings as they did Aileen,\naccusing her, when the eggs were slow in coming, of late hours in the\ncompany of envied swains. No one had ever given her a turquoise ring or\ninvited her upon a voyage to mysterious, distant \u201cParsifal.\u201d", "words": 279}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Tildy was a good waitress, and the men tolerated her. They who sat at\nher tables spoke to her briefly with quotations from the bill of fare;\nand then raised their voices in honeyed and otherwise-flavoured\naccents, eloquently addressed to the fair Aileen. They writhed in their\nchairs to gaze around and over the impending form of Tildy, that\nAileen\u2019s pulchritude might season and make ambrosia of their bacon and\neggs. And Tildy was content to be the unwooed drudge if Aileen could receive\nthe flattery and the homage. The blunt nose was loyal to the short\nGrecian. She was Aileen\u2019s friend; and she was glad to see her rule\nhearts and wean the attention of men from smoking pot-pie and lemon\nmeringue. But deep below our freckles and hay-coloured hair the\nunhandsomest of us dream of a prince or a princess, not vicarious, but\ncoming to us alone. There was a morning when Aileen tripped in to work with a slightly\nbruised eye; and Tildy\u2019s solicitude was almost enough to heal any\noptic. \u201cFresh guy,\u201d explained Aileen, \u201clast night as I was going home at\nTwenty-third and Sixth. Sashayed up, so he did, and made a break. I\nturned him down, cold, and he made a sneak; but followed me down to\nEighteenth, and tried his hot air again. Gee! but I slapped him a good\none, side of the face. Then he give me that eye. Does it look real\nawful, Til? I should hate that Mr. Nicholson should see it when he\ncomes in for his tea and toast at ten.\u201d Tildy listened to the adventure with breathless admiration. No man had\never tried to follow her. She was safe abroad at any hour of the\ntwenty-four. What bliss it must have been to have had a man follow one\nand black one\u2019s eye for love!", "words": 309}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "Among the customers at Bogle\u2019s was a young man named Seeders, who\nworked in a laundry office. Mr. Seeders was thin and had light hair,\nand appeared to have been recently rough-dried and starched. He was too\ndiffident to aspire to Aileen\u2019s notice; so he usually sat at one of\nTildy\u2019s tables, where he devoted himself to silence and boiled\nweakfish. One day when Mr. Seeders came in to dinner he had been drinking beer.\nThere were only two or three customers in the restaurant. When Mr.\nSeeders had finished his weakfish he got up, put his arm around Tildy\u2019s\nwaist, kissed her loudly and impudently, walked out upon the street,\nsnapped his fingers in the direction of the laundry, and hied himself\nto play pennies in the slot machines at the Amusement Arcade. For a few moments Tildy stood petrified. Then she was aware of Aileen\nshaking at her an arch forefinger, and saying: \u201cWhy, Til, you naughty girl! Ain\u2019t you getting to be awful, Miss\nSlyboots! First thing I know you\u2019ll be stealing some of my fellows. I\nmust keep an eye on you, my lady.\u201d Another thing dawned upon Tildy\u2019s recovering wits. In a moment she had\nadvanced from a hopeless, lowly admirer to be an Eve-sister of the\npotent Aileen. She herself was now a man-charmer, a mark for Cupid, a\nSabine who must be coy when the Romans were at their banquet boards.\nMan had found her waist achievable and her lips desirable. The sudden\nand amatory Seeders had, as it were, performed for her a miraculous\npiece of one-day laundry work. He had taken the sackcloth of her\nuncomeliness, had washed, dried, starched and ironed it, and returned\nit to her sheer embroidered lawn\u2014the robe of Venus herself.", "words": 294}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "The freckles on Tildy\u2019s cheeks merged into a rosy flush. Now both Circe\nand Psyche peeped from her brightened eyes. Not even Aileen herself had\nbeen publicly embraced and kissed in the restaurant. Tildy could not keep the delightful secret. When trade was slack she\nwent and stood at Bogle\u2019s desk. Her eyes were shining; she tried not to\nlet her words sound proud and boastful. \u201cA gentleman insulted me to-day,\u201d she said. \u201cHe hugged me around the\nwaist and kissed me.\u201d \u201cThat so?\u201d said Bogle, cracking open his business armour. \u201cAfter this\nweek you get a dollar a week more.\u201d At the next regular meal when Tildy set food before customers with whom\nshe had acquaintance she said to each of them modestly, as one whose\nmerit needed no bolstering: \u201cA gentleman insulted me to-day in the restaurant. He put his arm\naround my waist and kissed me.\u201d The diners accepted the revelation in various ways\u2014some incredulously,\nsome with congratulations; others turned upon her the stream of\nbadinage that had hitherto been directed at Aileen alone. And Tildy\u2019s\nheart swelled in her bosom, for she saw at last the towers of Romance\nrise above the horizon of the grey plain in which she had for so long\ntravelled. For two days Mr. Seeders came not again. During that time Tildy\nestablished herself firmly as a woman to be wooed. She bought ribbons,\nand arranged her hair like Aileen\u2019s, and tightened her waist two\ninches. She had a thrilling but delightful fear that Mr. Seeders would\nrush in suddenly and shoot her with a pistol. He must have loved her\ndesperately; and impulsive lovers are always blindly jealous. Even Aileen had not been shot at with a pistol. And then Tildy rather\nhoped that he would not shoot at her, for she was always loyal to\nAileen; and she did not want to overshadow her friend.", "words": 316}, {"story": 69, "title": "THE BRIEF D\u00c9BUT OF TILDY", "volume": "The Four Million", "text": "At 4 o\u2019clock on the afternoon of the third day Mr. Seeders came in.\nThere were no customers at the tables. At the back end of the\nrestaurant Tildy was refilling the mustard pots and Aileen was\nquartering pies. Mr. Seeders walked back to where they stood. Tildy looked up and saw him, gasped, and pressed the mustard spoon\nagainst her heart. A red hair-bow was in her hair; she wore Venus\u2019s\nEighth Avenue badge, the blue bead necklace with the swinging silver\nsymbolic heart. Mr. Seeders was flushed and embarrassed. He plunged one hand into his\nhip pocket and the other into a fresh pumpkin pie. \u201cMiss Tildy,\u201d said he, \u201cI want to apologise for what I done the other\nevenin\u2019. Tell you the truth, I was pretty well tanked up or I wouldn\u2019t\nof done it. I wouldn\u2019t do no lady that a-way when I was sober. So I\nhope, Miss Tildy, you\u2019ll accept my \u2019pology, and believe that I wouldn\u2019t\nof done it if I\u2019d known what I was doin\u2019 and hadn\u2019t of been drunk.\u201d With this handsome plea Mr. Seeders backed away, and departed, feeling\nthat reparation had been made. But behind the convenient screen Tildy had thrown herself flat upon a\ntable among the butter chips and the coffee cups, and was sobbing her\nheart out\u2014out and back again to the grey plain wherein travel they with\nblunt noses and hay-coloured hair. From her knot she had torn the red\nhair-bow and cast it upon the floor. Seeders she despised utterly; she\nhad but taken his kiss as that of a pioneer and prophetic prince who\nmight have set the clocks going and the pages to running in fairyland.\nBut the kiss had been maudlin and unmeant; the court had not stirred at\nthe false alarm; she must forevermore remain the Sleeping Beauty.", "words": 308}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Of course there are two sides to the question. Let us look at the\nother. We often hear \u201cshop-girls\u201d spoken of. No such persons exist.\nThere are girls who work in shops. They make their living that way. But\nwhy turn their occupation into an adjective? Let us be fair. We do not\nrefer to the girls who live on Fifth Avenue as \u201cmarriage-girls.\u201d Lou and Nancy were chums. They came to the big city to find work\nbecause there was not enough to eat at their homes to go around. Nancy\nwas nineteen; Lou was twenty. Both were pretty, active, country girls\nwho had no ambition to go on the stage. The little cherub that sits up aloft guided them to a cheap and\nrespectable boarding-house. Both found positions and became\nwage-earners. They remained chums. It is at the end of six months that\nI would beg you to step forward and be introduced to them. Meddlesome\nReader: My Lady friends, Miss Nancy and Miss Lou. While you are shaking\nhands please take notice\u2014cautiously\u2014of their attire. Yes, cautiously;\nfor they are as quick to resent a stare as a lady in a box at the horse\nshow is. Lou is a piece-work ironer in a hand laundry. She is clothed in a\nbadly-fitting purple dress, and her hat plume is four inches too long;\nbut her ermine muff and scarf cost $25, and its fellow beasts will be\nticketed in the windows at $7.98 before the season is over. Her cheeks\nare pink, and her light blue eyes bright. Contentment radiates from\nher.", "words": 264}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Nancy you would call a shop-girl\u2014because you have the habit. There is\nno type; but a perverse generation is always seeking a type; so this is\nwhat the type should be. She has the high-ratted pompadour, and the\nexaggerated straight-front. Her skirt is shoddy, but has the correct\nflare. No furs protect her against the bitter spring air, but she wears\nher short broadcloth jacket as jauntily as though it were Persian lamb!\nOn her face and in her eyes, remorseless type-seeker, is the typical\nshop-girl expression. It is a look of silent but contemptuous revolt\nagainst cheated womanhood; of sad prophecy of the vengeance to come.\nWhen she laughs her loudest the look is still there. The same look can\nbe seen in the eyes of Russian peasants; and those of us left will see\nit some day on Gabriel\u2019s face when he comes to blow us up. It is a look\nthat should wither and abash man; but he has been known to smirk at it\nand offer flowers\u2014with a string tied to them. Now lift your hat and come away, while you receive Lou\u2019s cheery \u201cSee\nyou again,\u201d and the sardonic, sweet smile of Nancy that seems, somehow,\nto miss you and go fluttering like a white moth up over the housetops\nto the stars. The two waited on the corner for Dan. Dan was Lou\u2019s steady company.\nFaithful? Well, he was on hand when Mary would have had to hire a dozen\nsubpoena servers to find her lamb. \u201cAin\u2019t you cold, Nance?\u201d said Lou. \u201cSay, what a chump you are for\nworking in that old store for $8 a week! I made $18.50 last week. Of\ncourse ironing ain\u2019t as swell work as selling lace behind a counter,\nbut it pays. None of us ironers make less than $10. And I don\u2019t know\nthat it\u2019s any less respectful work, either.\u201d", "words": 314}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou can have it,\u201d said Nancy, with uplifted nose. \u201cI\u2019ll take my eight\na week and hall bedroom. I like to be among nice things and swell\npeople. And look what a chance I\u2019ve got! Why, one of our glove girls\nmarried a Pittsburg\u2014steel maker, or blacksmith or something\u2014the other\nday worth a million dollars. I\u2019ll catch a swell myself some time. I\nain\u2019t bragging on my looks or anything; but I\u2019ll take my chances where\nthere\u2019s big prizes offered. What show would a girl have in a laundry?\u201d \u201cWhy, that\u2019s where I met Dan,\u201d said Lou, triumphantly. \u201cHe came in for\nhis Sunday shirt and collars and saw me at the first board, ironing. We\nall try to get to work at the first board. Ella Maginnis was sick that\nday, and I had her place. He said he noticed my arms first, how round\nand white they was. I had my sleeves rolled up. Some nice fellows come\ninto laundries. You can tell \u2019em by their bringing their clothes in\nsuit cases; and turning in the door sharp and sudden.\u201d \u201cHow can you wear a waist like that, Lou?\u201d said Nancy, gazing down at\nthe offending article with sweet scorn in her heavy-lidded eyes. \u201cIt\nshows fierce taste.\u201d \u201cThis waist?\u201d cried Lou, with wide-eyed indignation. \u201cWhy, I paid $16\nfor this waist. It\u2019s worth twenty-five. A woman left it to be\nlaundered, and never called for it. The boss sold it to me. It\u2019s got\nyards and yards of hand embroidery on it. Better talk about that ugly,\nplain thing you\u2019ve got on.\u201d \u201cThis ugly, plain thing,\u201d said Nancy, calmly, \u201cwas copied from one that\nMrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing. The girls say her bill in the\nstore last year was $12,000. I made mine, myself. It cost me $1.50. Ten\nfeet away you couldn\u2019t tell it from hers.\u201d", "words": 312}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh, well,\u201d said Lou, good-naturedly, \u201cif you want to starve and put on\nairs, go ahead. But I\u2019ll take my job and good wages; and after hours\ngive me something as fancy and attractive to wear as I am able to buy.\u201d But just then Dan came\u2014a serious young man with a ready-made necktie,\nwho had escaped the city\u2019s brand of frivolity\u2014an electrician earning 30\ndollars per week who looked upon Lou with the sad eyes of Romeo, and\nthought her embroidered waist a web in which any fly should delight to\nbe caught. \u201cMy friend, Mr. Owens\u2014shake hands with Miss Danforth,\u201d said Lou. \u201cI\u2019m mighty glad to know you, Miss Danforth,\u201d said Dan, with\noutstretched hand. \u201cI\u2019ve heard Lou speak of you so often.\u201d \u201cThanks,\u201d said Nancy, touching his fingers with the tips of her cool\nones, \u201cI\u2019ve heard her mention you\u2014a few times.\u201d Lou giggled. \u201cDid you get that handshake from Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher, Nance?\u201d she\nasked. \u201cIf I did, you can feel safe in copying it,\u201d said Nancy. \u201cOh, I couldn\u2019t use it, at all. It\u2019s too stylish for me. It\u2019s intended\nto set off diamond rings, that high shake is. Wait till I get a few and\nthen I\u2019ll try it.\u201d \u201cLearn it first,\u201d said Nancy wisely, \u201cand you\u2019ll be more likely to get\nthe rings.\u201d \u201cNow, to settle this argument,\u201d said Dan, with his ready, cheerful\nsmile, \u201clet me make a proposition. As I can\u2019t take both of you up to\nTiffany\u2019s and do the right thing, what do you say to a little\nvaudeville? I\u2019ve got the tickets. How about looking at stage diamonds\nsince we can\u2019t shake hands with the real sparklers?\u201d", "words": 280}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The faithful squire took his place close to the curb; Lou next, a\nlittle peacocky in her bright and pretty clothes; Nancy on the inside,\nslender, and soberly clothed as the sparrow, but with the true Van\nAlstyne Fisher walk\u2014thus they set out for their evening\u2019s moderate\ndiversion. I do not suppose that many look upon a great department store as an\neducational institution. But the one in which Nancy worked was\nsomething like that to her. She was surrounded by beautiful things that\nbreathed of taste and refinement. If you live in an atmosphere of\nluxury, luxury is yours whether your money pays for it, or another\u2019s. The people she served were mostly women whose dress, manners, and\nposition in the social world were quoted as criterions. From them Nancy\nbegan to take toll\u2014the best from each according to her view. From one she would copy and practice a gesture, from another an\neloquent lifting of an eyebrow, from others, a manner of walking, of\ncarrying a purse, of smiling, of greeting a friend, of addressing\n\u201cinferiors in station.\u201d From her best beloved model, Mrs. Van Alstyne\nFisher, she made requisition for that excellent thing, a soft, low\nvoice as clear as silver and as perfect in articulation as the notes of\na thrush. Suffused in the aura of this high social refinement and good\nbreeding, it was impossible for her to escape a deeper effect of it. As\ngood habits are said to be better than good principles, so, perhaps,\ngood manners are better than good habits. The teachings of your parents\nmay not keep alive your New England conscience; but if you sit on a\nstraight-back chair and repeat the words \u201cprisms and pilgrims\u201d forty\ntimes the devil will flee from you. And when Nancy spoke in the Van\nAlstyne Fisher tones she felt the thrill of _noblesse oblige_ to her\nvery bones.", "words": 316}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There was another source of learning in the great departmental school.\nWhenever you see three or four shop-girls gather in a bunch and jingle\ntheir wire bracelets as an accompaniment to apparently frivolous\nconversation, do not think that they are there for the purpose of\ncriticizing the way Ethel does her back hair. The meeting may lack the\ndignity of the deliberative bodies of man; but it has all the\nimportance of the occasion on which Eve and her first daughter first\nput their heads together to make Adam understand his proper place in\nthe household. It is Woman\u2019s Conference for Common Defense and Exchange\nof Strategical Theories of Attack and Repulse upon and against the\nWorld, which is a Stage, and Man, its Audience who Persists in Throwing\nBouquets Thereupon. Woman, the most helpless of the young of any\nanimal\u2014with the fawn\u2019s grace but without its fleetness; with the bird\u2019s\nbeauty but without its power of flight; with the honey-bee\u2019s burden of\nsweetness but without its\u2014Oh, let\u2019s drop that simile\u2014some of us may\nhave been stung. During this council of war they pass weapons one to another, and\nexchange stratagems that each has devised and formulated out of the\ntactics of life. \u201cI says to \u2019im,\u201d says Sadie, \u201cain\u2019t you the fresh thing! Who do you\nsuppose I am, to be addressing such a remark to me? And what do you\nthink he says back to me?\u201d The heads, brown, black, flaxen, red, and yellow bob together; the\nanswer is given; and the parry to the thrust is decided upon, to be\nused by each thereafter in passages-at-arms with the common enemy, man. Thus Nancy learned the art of defense; and to women successful defense\nmeans victory. The curriculum of a department store is a wide one. Perhaps no other\ncollege could have fitted her as well for her life\u2019s ambition\u2014the\ndrawing of a matrimonial prize.", "words": 317}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Her station in the store was a favored one. The music room was near\nenough for her to hear and become familiar with the works of the best\ncomposers\u2014at least to acquire the familiarity that passed for\nappreciation in the social world in which she was vaguely trying to set\na tentative and aspiring foot. She absorbed the educating influence of\nart wares, of costly and dainty fabrics, of adornments that are almost\nculture to women. The other girls soon became aware of Nancy\u2019s ambition. \u201cHere comes your\nmillionaire, Nancy,\u201d they would call to her whenever any man who looked\nthe r\u00f4le approached her counter. It got to be a habit of men, who were\nhanging about while their women folk were shopping, to stroll over to\nthe handkerchief counter and dawdle over the cambric squares. Nancy\u2019s\nimitation high-bred air and genuine dainty beauty was what attracted.\nMany men thus came to display their graces before her. Some of them may\nhave been millionaires; others were certainly no more than their\nsedulous apes. Nancy learned to discriminate. There was a window at the\nend of the handkerchief counter; and she could see the rows of vehicles\nwaiting for the shoppers in the street below. She looked and perceived\nthat automobiles differ as well as do their owners. Once a fascinating gentleman bought four dozen handkerchiefs, and wooed\nher across the counter with a King Cophetua air. When he had gone one\nof the girls said: \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong, Nance, that you didn\u2019t warm up to that fellow. He looks\nthe swell article, all right, to me.\u201d", "words": 265}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cHim?\u201d said Nancy, with her coolest, sweetest, most impersonal, Van\nAlstyne Fisher smile; \u201cnot for mine. I saw him drive up outside. A 12\nH. P. machine and an Irish chauffeur! And you saw what kind of\nhandkerchiefs he bought\u2014silk! And he\u2019s got dactylis on him. Give me the\nreal thing or nothing, if you please.\u201d Two of the most \u201crefined\u201d women in the store\u2014a forelady and a\ncashier\u2014had a few \u201cswell gentlemen friends\u201d with whom they now and then\ndined. Once they included Nancy in an invitation. The dinner took place\nin a spectacular caf\u00e9 whose tables are engaged for New Year\u2019s eve a\nyear in advance. There were two \u201cgentlemen friends\u201d\u2014one without any\nhair on his head\u2014high living ungrew it; and we can prove it\u2014the other a\nyoung man whose worth and sophistication he impressed upon you in two\nconvincing ways\u2014he swore that all the wine was corked; and he wore\ndiamond cuff buttons. This young man perceived irresistible\nexcellencies in Nancy. His taste ran to shop-girls; and here was one\nthat added the voice and manners of his high social world to the\nfranker charms of her own caste. So, on the following day, he appeared\nin the store and made her a serious proposal of marriage over a box of\nhem-stitched, grass-bleached Irish linens. Nancy declined. A brown\npompadour ten feet away had been using her eyes and ears. When the\nrejected suitor had gone she heaped carboys of upbraidings and horror\nupon Nancy\u2019s head. \u201cWhat a terrible little fool you are! That fellow\u2019s a millionaire\u2014he\u2019s\na nephew of old Van Skittles himself. And he was talking on the level,\ntoo. Have you gone crazy, Nance?\u201d", "words": 280}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cHave I?\u201d said Nancy. \u201cI didn\u2019t take him, did I? He isn\u2019t a millionaire\nso hard that you could notice it, anyhow. His family only allows him\n$20,000 a year to spend. The bald-headed fellow was guying him about it\nthe other night at supper.\u201d The brown pompadour came nearer and narrowed her eyes. \u201cSay, what do you want?\u201d she inquired, in a voice hoarse for lack of\nchewing-gum. \u201cAin\u2019t that enough for you? Do you want to be a Mormon,\nand marry Rockefeller and Gladstone Dowie and the King of Spain and the\nwhole bunch? Ain\u2019t $20,000 a year good enough for you?\u201d Nancy flushed a little under the level gaze of the black, shallow eyes. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t altogether the money, Carrie,\u201d she explained. \u201cHis friend\ncaught him in a rank lie the other night at dinner. It was about some\ngirl he said he hadn\u2019t been to the theater with. Well, I can\u2019t stand a\nliar. Put everything together\u2014I don\u2019t like him; and that settles it.\nWhen I sell out it\u2019s not going to be on any bargain day. I\u2019ve got to\nhave something that sits up in a chair like a man, anyhow. Yes, I\u2019m\nlooking out for a catch; but it\u2019s got to be able to do something more\nthan make a noise like a toy bank.\u201d \u201cThe physiopathic ward for yours!\u201d said the brown pompadour, walking\naway.", "words": 232}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "These high ideas, if not ideals\u2014Nancy continued to cultivate on $8. per\nweek. She bivouacked on the trail of the great unknown \u201ccatch,\u201d eating\nher dry bread and tightening her belt day by day. On her face was the\nfaint, soldierly, sweet, grim smile of the preordained man-hunter. The\nstore was her forest; and many times she raised her rifle at game that\nseemed broad-antlered and big; but always some deep unerring\ninstinct\u2014perhaps of the huntress, perhaps of the woman\u2014made her hold\nher fire and take up the trail again. Lou flourished in the laundry. Out of her $18.50 per week she paid $6.\nfor her room and board. The rest went mainly for clothes. Her\nopportunities for bettering her taste and manners were few compared\nwith Nancy\u2019s. In the steaming laundry there was nothing but work, work\nand her thoughts of the evening pleasures to come. Many costly and\nshowy fabrics passed under her iron; and it may be that her growing\nfondness for dress was thus transmitted to her through the conducting\nmetal. When the day\u2019s work was over Dan awaited her outside, her faithful\nshadow in whatever light she stood. Sometimes he cast an honest and troubled glance at Lou\u2019s clothes that\nincreased in conspicuity rather than in style; but this was no\ndisloyalty; he deprecated the attention they called to her in the\nstreets.", "words": 228}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And Lou was no less faithful to her chum. There was a law that Nancy\nshould go with them on whatsoever outings they might take. Dan bore the\nextra burden heartily and in good cheer. It might be said that Lou\nfurnished the color, Nancy the tone, and Dan the weight of the\ndistraction-seeking trio. The escort, in his neat but obviously\nready-made suit, his ready-made tie and unfailing, genial, ready-made\nwit never startled or clashed. He was of that good kind that you are\nlikely to forget while they are present, but remember distinctly after\nthey are gone. To Nancy\u2019s superior taste the flavor of these ready-made pleasures was\nsometimes a little bitter: but she was young; and youth is a gourmand,\nwhen it cannot be a gourmet. \u201cDan is always wanting me to marry him right away,\u201d Lou told her once.\n\u201cBut why should I? I\u2019m independent. I can do as I please with the money\nI earn; and he never would agree for me to keep on working afterward.\nAnd say, Nance, what do you want to stick to that old store for, and\nhalf starve and half dress yourself? I could get you a place in the\nlaundry right now if you\u2019d come. It seems to me that you could afford\nto be a little less stuck-up if you could make a good deal more money.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t think I\u2019m stuck-up, Lou,\u201d said Nancy, \u201cbut I\u2019d rather live on\nhalf rations and stay where I am. I suppose I\u2019ve got the habit. It\u2019s\nthe chance that I want. I don\u2019t expect to be always behind a counter.\nI\u2019m learning something new every day. I\u2019m right up against refined and\nrich people all the time\u2014even if I do only wait on them; and I\u2019m not\nmissing any pointers that I see passing around.\u201d \u201cCaught your millionaire yet?\u201d asked Lou with her teasing laugh.", "words": 316}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI haven\u2019t selected one yet,\u201d answered Nancy. \u201cI\u2019ve been looking them\nover.\u201d \u201cGoodness! the idea of picking over \u2019em! Don\u2019t you ever let one get by\nyou Nance\u2014even if he\u2019s a few dollars shy. But of course you\u2019re\njoking\u2014millionaires don\u2019t think about working girls like us.\u201d \u201cIt might be better for them if they did,\u201d said Nancy, with cool\nwisdom. \u201cSome of us could teach them how to take care of their money.\u201d \u201cIf one was to speak to me,\u201d laughed Lou, \u201cI know I\u2019d have a duck-fit.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s because you don\u2019t know any. The only difference between swells\nand other people is you have to watch \u2019em closer. Don\u2019t you think that\nred silk lining is just a little bit too bright for that coat, Lou?\u201d Lou looked at the plain, dull olive jacket of her friend. \u201cWell, no I don\u2019t\u2014but it may seem so beside that faded-looking thing\nyou\u2019ve got on.\u201d \u201cThis jacket,\u201d said Nancy, complacently, \u201chas exactly the cut and fit\nof one that Mrs. Van Alstyne Fisher was wearing the other day. The\nmaterial cost me $3.98. I suppose hers cost about $100. more.\u201d \u201cOh, well,\u201d said Lou lightly, \u201cit don\u2019t strike me as millionaire bait.\nShouldn\u2019t wonder if I catch one before you do, anyway.\u201d Truly it would have taken a philosopher to decide upon the values of\nthe theories held by the two friends. Lou, lacking that certain pride\nand fastidiousness that keeps stores and desks filled with girls\nworking for the barest living, thumped away gaily with her iron in the\nnoisy and stifling laundry. Her wages supported her even beyond the\npoint of comfort; so that her dress profited until sometimes she cast a\nsidelong glance of impatience at the neat but inelegant apparel of\nDan\u2014Dan the constant, the immutable, the undeviating.", "words": 300}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "As for Nancy, her case was one of tens of thousands. Silk and jewels\nand laces and ornaments and the perfume and music of the fine world of\ngood-breeding and taste\u2014these were made for woman; they are her\nequitable portion. Let her keep near them if they are a part of life to\nher, and if she will. She is no traitor to herself, as Esau was; for\nshe keeps her birthright and the pottage she earns is often very scant. In this atmosphere Nancy belonged; and she throve in it and ate her\nfrugal meals and schemed over her cheap dresses with a determined and\ncontented mind. She already knew woman; and she was studying man, the\nanimal, both as to his habits and eligibility. Some day she would bring\ndown the game that she wanted; but she promised herself it would be\nwhat seemed to her the biggest and the best, and nothing smaller. Thus she kept her lamp trimmed and burning to receive the bridegroom\nwhen he should come. But, another lesson she learned, perhaps unconsciously. Her standard of\nvalues began to shift and change. Sometimes the dollar-mark grew\nblurred in her mind\u2019s eye, and shaped itself into letters that spelled\nsuch words as \u201ctruth\u201d and \u201chonor\u201d and now and then just \u201ckindness.\u201d Let\nus make a likeness of one who hunts the moose or elk in some mighty\nwood. He sees a little dell, mossy and embowered, where a rill\ntrickles, babbling to him of rest and comfort. At these times the spear\nof Nimrod himself grows blunt. So, Nancy wondered sometimes if Persian lamb was always quoted at its\nmarket value by the hearts that it covered. One Thursday evening Nancy left the store and turned across Sixth\nAvenue westward to the laundry. She was expected to go with Lou and Dan\nto a musical comedy.", "words": 311}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Dan was just coming out of the laundry when she arrived. There was a\nqueer, strained look on his face. \u201cI thought I would drop around to see if they had heard from her,\u201d he\nsaid. \u201cHeard from who?\u201d asked Nancy. \u201cIsn\u2019t Lou there?\u201d \u201cI thought you knew,\u201d said Dan. \u201cShe hasn\u2019t been here or at the house\nwhere she lived since Monday. She moved all her things from there. She\ntold one of the girls in the laundry she might be going to Europe.\u201d \u201cHasn\u2019t anybody seen her anywhere?\u201d asked Nancy. Dan looked at her with his jaws set grimly, and a steely gleam in his\nsteady gray eyes. \u201cThey told me in the laundry,\u201d he said, harshly, \u201cthat they saw her\npass yesterday\u2014in an automobile. With one of the millionaires, I\nsuppose, that you and Lou were forever busying your brains about.\u201d For the first time Nancy quailed before a man. She laid her hand that\ntrembled slightly on Dan\u2019s sleeve. \u201cYou\u2019ve no right to say such a thing to me, Dan\u2014as if I had anything to\ndo with it!\u201d \u201cI didn\u2019t mean it that way,\u201d said Dan, softening. He fumbled in his\nvest pocket. \u201cI\u2019ve got the tickets for the show to-night,\u201d he said, with a gallant\nshow of lightness. \u201cIf you\u2014\u201d Nancy admired pluck whenever she saw it. \u201cI\u2019ll go with you, Dan,\u201d she said. Three months went by before Nancy saw Lou again. At twilight one evening the shop-girl was hurrying home along the\nborder of a little quiet park. She heard her name called, and wheeled\nabout in time to catch Lou rushing into her arms.", "words": 272}, {"story": 70, "title": "THE TRIMMED LAMP", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "After the first embrace they drew their heads back as serpents do,\nready to attack or to charm, with a thousand questions trembling on\ntheir swift tongues. And then Nancy noticed that prosperity had\ndescended upon Lou, manifesting itself in costly furs, flashing gems,\nand creations of the tailors\u2019 art. \u201cYou little fool!\u201d cried Lou, loudly and affectionately. \u201cI see you are\nstill working in that store, and as shabby as ever. And how about that\nbig catch you were going to make\u2014nothing doing yet, I suppose?\u201d And then Lou looked, and saw that something better than prosperity had\ndescended upon Nancy\u2014something that shone brighter than gems in her\neyes and redder than a rose in her cheeks, and that danced like\nelectricity anxious to be loosed from the tip of her tongue. \u201cYes, I\u2019m still in the store,\u201d said Nancy, \u201cbut I\u2019m going to leave it\nnext week. I\u2019ve made my catch\u2014the biggest catch in the world. You won\u2019t\nmind now Lou, will you?\u2014I\u2019m going to be married to Dan\u2014to Dan!\u2014he\u2019s my\nDan now\u2014why, Lou!\u201d Around the corner of the park strolled one of those new-crop,\nsmooth-faced young policemen that are making the force more\nendurable\u2014at least to the eye. He saw a woman with an expensive fur\ncoat, and diamond-ringed hands crouching down against the iron fence of\nthe park sobbing turbulently, while a slender, plainly-dressed working\ngirl leaned close, trying to console her. But the Gibsonian cop, being\nof the new order, passed on, pretending not to notice, for he was wise\nenough to know that these matters are beyond help so far as the power\nhe represents is concerned, though he rap the pavement with his\nnightstick till the sound goes up to the furthermost stars.", "words": 290}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "To Carson Chalmers, in his apartment near the square, Phillips brought\nthe evening mail. Beside the routine correspondence there were two\nitems bearing the same foreign postmark. One of the incoming parcels contained a photograph of a woman. The\nother contained an interminable letter, over which Chalmers hung,\nabsorbed, for a long time. The letter was from another woman; and it\ncontained poisoned barbs, sweetly dipped in honey, and feathered with\ninnuendoes concerning the photographed woman. Chalmers tore this letter into a thousand bits and began to wear out\nhis expensive rug by striding back and forth upon it. Thus an animal\nfrom the jungle acts when it is caged, and thus a caged man acts when\nhe is housed in a jungle of doubt. By and by the restless mood was overcome. The rug was not an enchanted\none. For sixteen feet he could travel along it; three thousand miles\nwas beyond its power to aid. Phillips appeared. He never entered; he invariably appeared, like a\nwell-oiled genie. \u201cWill you dine here, sir, or out?\u201d he asked. \u201cHere,\u201d said Chalmers, \u201cand in half an hour.\u201d He listened glumly to the\nJanuary blasts making an Aeolian trombone of the empty street. \u201cWait,\u201d he said to the disappearing genie. \u201cAs I came home across the\nend of the square I saw many men standing there in rows. There was one\nmounted upon something, talking. Why do those men stand in rows, and\nwhy are they there?\u201d \u201cThey are homeless men, sir,\u201d said Phillips. \u201cThe man standing on the\nbox tries to get lodging for them for the night. People come around to\nlisten and give him money. Then he sends as many as the money will pay\nfor to some lodging-house. That is why they stand in rows; they get\nsent to bed in order as they come.\u201d", "words": 307}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cBy the time dinner is served,\u201d said Chalmers, \u201chave one of those men\nhere. He will dine with me.\u201d \u201cW-w-which\u2014,\u201d began Phillips, stammering for the first time during his\nservice. \u201cChoose one at random,\u201d said Chalmers. \u201cYou might see that he is\nreasonably sober\u2014and a certain amount of cleanliness will not be held\nagainst him. That is all.\u201d It was an unusual thing for Carson Chalmers to play the Caliph. But on\nthat night he felt the inefficacy of conventional antidotes to\nmelancholy. Something wanton and egregious, something high-flavored and\nArabian, he must have to lighten his mood. On the half hour Phillips had finished his duties as slave of the lamp.\nThe waiters from the restaurant below had whisked aloft the delectable\ndinner. The dining table, laid for two, glowed cheerily in the glow of\nthe pink-shaded candles. And now Phillips, as though he ushered a cardinal\u2014or held in charge a\nburglar\u2014wafted in the shivering guest who had been haled from the line\nof mendicant lodgers.", "words": 167}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It is a common thing to call such men wrecks; if the comparison be used\nhere it is the specific one of a derelict come to grief through fire.\nEven yet some flickering combustion illuminated the drifting hulk. His\nface and hands had been recently washed\u2014a rite insisted upon by\nPhillips as a memorial to the slaughtered conventions. In the\ncandle-light he stood, a flaw in the decorous fittings of the\napartment. His face was a sickly white, covered almost to the eyes with\na stubble the shade of a red Irish setter\u2019s coat. Phillips\u2019s comb had\nfailed to control the pale brown hair, long matted and conformed to the\ncontour of a constantly worn hat. His eyes were full of a hopeless,\ntricky defiance like that seen in a cur\u2019s that is cornered by his\ntormentors. His shabby coat was buttoned high, but a quarter inch of\nredeeming collar showed above it. His manner was singularly free from\nembarrassment when Chalmers rose from his chair across the round dining\ntable. \u201cIf you will oblige me,\u201d said the host, \u201cI will be glad to have your\ncompany at dinner.\u201d \u201cMy name is Plumer,\u201d said the highway guest, in harsh and aggressive\ntones. \u201cIf you\u2019re like me, you like to know the name of the party\nyou\u2019re dining with.\u201d \u201cI was going on to say,\u201d continued Chalmers somewhat hastily, \u201cthat\nmine is Chalmers. Will you sit opposite?\u201d Plumer, of the ruffled plumes, bent his knee for Phillips to slide the\nchair beneath him. He had an air of having sat at attended boards\nbefore. Phillips set out the anchovies and olives.", "words": 270}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGood!\u201d barked Plumer; \u201cgoing to be in courses, is it? All right, my\njovial ruler of Bagdad. I\u2019m your Scheherezade all the way to the\ntoothpicks. You\u2019re the first Caliph with a genuine Oriental flavor I\u2019ve\nstruck since frost. What luck! And I was forty-third in line. I\nfinished counting, just as your welcome emissary arrived to bid me to\nthe feast. I had about as much chance of getting a bed to-night as I\nhave of being the next President. How will you have the sad story of my\nlife, Mr. Al Raschid\u2014a chapter with each course or the whole edition\nwith the cigars and coffee?\u201d \u201cThe situation does not seem a novel one to you,\u201d said Chalmers with a\nsmile. \u201cBy the chin whiskers of the prophet\u2014no!\u201d answered the guest. \u201cNew\nYork\u2019s as full of cheap Haroun al Raschids as Bagdad is of fleas. I\u2019ve\nbeen held up for my story with a loaded meal pointed at my head twenty\ntimes. Catch anybody in New York giving you something for nothing! They\nspell curiosity and charity with the same set of building blocks. Lots\nof \u2019em will stake you to a dime and chop-suey; and a few of \u2019em will\nplay Caliph to the tune of a top sirloin; but every one of \u2019em will\nstand over you till they screw your autobiography out of you with foot\nnotes, appendix and unpublished fragments. Oh, I know what to do when I\nsee victuals coming toward me in little old Bagdad-on-the-Subway. I\nstrike the asphalt three times with my forehead and get ready to spiel\nyarns for my supper. I claim descent from the late Tommy Tucker, who\nwas forced to hand out vocal harmony for his pre-digested wheaterina\nand spoopju.\u201d", "words": 292}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI do not ask your story,\u201d said Chalmers. \u201cI tell you frankly that it\nwas a sudden whim that prompted me to send for some stranger to dine\nwith me. I assure you you will not suffer through any curiosity of\nmine.\u201d \u201cOh, fudge!\u201d exclaimed the guest, enthusiastically tackling his soup;\n\u201cI don\u2019t mind it a bit. I\u2019m a regular Oriental magazine with a red\ncover and the leaves cut when the Caliph walks abroad. In fact, we\nfellows in the bed line have a sort of union rate for things of this\nsort. Somebody\u2019s always stopping and wanting to know what brought us\ndown so low in the world. For a sandwich and a glass of beer I tell \u2019em\nthat drink did it. For corned beef and cabbage and a cup of coffee I\ngive \u2019em the hard-hearted-landlord\u2014six-months-in-the-hospital-lost-job\nstory. A sirloin steak and a quarter for a bed gets the Wall Street\ntragedy of the swept-away fortune and the gradual descent. This is the\nfirst spread of this kind I\u2019ve stumbled against. I haven\u2019t got a story\nto fit it. I\u2019ll tell you what, Mr. Chalmers, I\u2019m going to tell you the\ntruth for this, if you\u2019ll listen to it. It\u2019ll be harder for you to\nbelieve than the made-up ones.\u201d An hour later the Arabian guest lay back with a sigh of satisfaction\nwhile Phillips brought the coffee and cigars and cleared the table. \u201cDid you ever hear of Sherrard Plumer?\u201d he asked, with a strange smile. \u201cI remember the name,\u201d said Chalmers. \u201cHe was a painter, I think, of a\ngood deal of prominence a few years ago.\u201d \u201cFive years,\u201d said the guest. \u201cThen I went down like a chunk of lead.\nI\u2019m Sherrard Plumer! I sold the last portrait I painted for $2,000.\nAfter that I couldn\u2019t have found a sitter for a gratis picture.\u201d \u201cWhat was the trouble?\u201d Chalmers could not resist asking.", "words": 319}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cFunny thing,\u201d answered Plumer, grimly. \u201cNever quite understood it\nmyself. For a while I swam like a cork. I broke into the swell crowd\nand got commissions right and left. The newspapers called me a\nfashionable painter. Then the funny things began to happen. Whenever I\nfinished a picture people would come to see it, and whisper and look\nqueerly at one another.\u201d \u201cI soon found out what the trouble was. I had a knack of bringing out\nin the face of a portrait the hidden character of the original. I don\u2019t\nknow how I did it\u2014I painted what I saw\u2014but I know it did me. Some of my\nsitters were fearfully enraged and refused their pictures. I painted\nthe portrait of a very beautiful and popular society dame. When it was\nfinished her husband looked at it with a peculiar expression on his\nface, and the next week he sued for divorce.\u201d \u201cI remember one case of a prominent banker who sat to me. While I had\nhis portrait on exhibition in my studio an acquaintance of his came in\nto look at it. \u2018Bless me,\u2019 says he, \u2018does he really look like that?\u201d I\ntold him it was considered a faithful likeness. \u2018I never noticed that\nexpression about his eyes before,\u2019 said he; \u2018I think I\u2019ll drop downtown\nand change my bank account.\u2019 He did drop down, but the bank account was\ngone and so was Mr. Banker.", "words": 240}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt wasn\u2019t long till they put me out of business. People don\u2019t want\ntheir secret meannesses shown up in a picture. They can smile and twist\ntheir own faces and deceive you, but the picture can\u2019t. I couldn\u2019t get\nan order for another picture, and I had to give up. I worked as a\nnewspaper artist for a while, and then for a lithographer, but my work\nwith them got me into the same trouble. If I drew from a photograph my\ndrawing showed up characteristics and expressions that you couldn\u2019t\nfind in the photo, but I guess they were in the original, all right.\nThe customers raised lively rows, especially the women, and I never\ncould hold a job long. So I began to rest my weary head upon the breast\nof Old Booze for comfort. And pretty soon I was in the free-bed line\nand doing oral fiction for hand-outs among the food bazaars. Does the\ntruthful statement weary thee, O Caliph? I can turn on the Wall Street\ndisaster stop if you prefer, but that requires a tear, and I\u2019m afraid I\ncan\u2019t hustle one up after that good dinner.\u201d \u201cNo, no,\u201d said Chalmers, earnestly, \u201cyou interest me very much. Did all\nof your portraits reveal some unpleasant trait, or were there some that\ndid not suffer from the ordeal of your peculiar brush?\u201d \u201cSome? Yes,\u201d said Plumer. \u201cChildren generally, a good many women and a\nsufficient number of men. All people aren\u2019t bad, you know. When they\nwere all right the pictures were all right. As I said, I don\u2019t explain\nit, but I\u2019m telling you facts.\u201d On Chalmers\u2019s writing-table lay the photograph that he had received\nthat day in the foreign mail. Ten minutes later he had Plumer at work\nmaking a sketch from it in pastels. At the end of an hour the artist\nrose and stretched wearily.", "words": 314}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt\u2019s done,\u201d he yawned. \u201cYou\u2019ll excuse me for being so long. I got\ninterested in the job. Lordy! but I\u2019m tired. No bed last night, you\nknow. Guess it\u2019ll have to be good night now, O Commander of the\nFaithful!\u201d Chalmers went as far as the door with him and slipped some bills into\nhis hand. \u201cOh! I\u2019ll take \u2019em,\u201d said Plumer. \u201cAll that\u2019s included in the fall.\nThanks. And for the very good dinner. I shall sleep on feathers\nto-night and dream of Bagdad. I hope it won\u2019t turn out to be a dream in\nthe morning. Farewell, most excellent Caliph!\u201d Again Chalmers paced restlessly upon his rug. But his beat lay as far\nfrom the table whereon lay the pastel sketch as the room would permit.\nTwice, thrice, he tried to approach it, but failed. He could see the\ndun and gold and brown of the colors, but there was a wall about it\nbuilt by his fears that kept him at a distance. He sat down and tried\nto calm himself. He sprang up and rang for Phillips. \u201cThere is a young artist in this building,\u201d he said. \u201c\u2014a Mr.\nReineman\u2014do you know which is his apartment?\u201d \u201cTop floor, front, sir,\u201d said Phillips. \u201cGo up and ask him to favor me with his presence here for a few\nminutes.\u201d Reineman came at once. Chalmers introduced himself. \u201cMr. Reineman,\u201d said he, \u201cthere is a little pastel sketch on yonder\ntable. I would be glad if you will give me your opinion of it as to its\nartistic merits and as a picture.\u201d The young artist advanced to the table and took up the sketch. Chalmers\nhalf turned away, leaning upon the back of a chair. \u201cHow\u2014do\u2014you find it?\u201d he asked, slowly.", "words": 293}, {"story": 71, "title": "A MADISON SQUARE ARABIAN NIGHT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAs a drawing,\u201d said the artist, \u201cI can\u2019t praise it enough. It\u2019s the\nwork of a master\u2014bold and fine and true. It puzzles me a little; I\nhaven\u2019t seen any pastel work near as good in years.\u201d \u201cThe face, man\u2014the subject\u2014the original\u2014what would you say of that?\u201d \u201cThe face,\u201d said Reineman, \u201cis the face of one of God\u2019s own angels. May\nI ask who\u2014\u201d \u201cMy wife!\u201d shouted Chalmers, wheeling and pouncing upon the astonished\nartist, gripping his hand and pounding his back. \u201cShe is traveling in\nEurope. Take that sketch, boy, and paint the picture of your life from\nit and leave the price to me.\u201d", "words": 106}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "This document is intended to strike somewhere between a temperance\nlecture and the \u201cBartender\u2019s Guide.\u201d Relative to the latter, drink\nshall swell the theme and be set forth in abundance. Agreeably to the\nformer, not an elbow shall be crooked. Bob Babbitt was \u201coff the stuff.\u201d Which means\u2014as you will discover by\nreferring to the unabridged dictionary of Bohemia\u2014that he had \u201ccut out\nthe booze;\u201d that he was \u201con the water wagon.\u201d The reason for Bob\u2019s\nsudden attitude of hostility toward the \u201cdemon rum\u201d\u2014as the white\nribboners miscall whiskey (see the \u201cBartender\u2019s Guide\u201d), should be of\ninterest to reformers and saloon-keepers. There is always hope for a man who, when sober, will not concede or\nacknowledge that he was ever drunk. But when a man will say (in the apt\nwords of the phrase-distiller), \u201cI had a beautiful skate on last\nnight,\u201d you will have to put stuff in his coffee as well as pray for\nhim. One evening on his way home Babbitt dropped in at the Broadway bar that\nhe liked best. Always there were three or four fellows there from the\ndowntown offices whom he knew. And then there would be high-balls and\nstories, and he would hurry home to dinner a little late but feeling\ngood, and a little sorry for the poor Standard Oil Company. On this\nevening as he entered he heard some one say: \u201cBabbitt was in last night\nas full as a boiled owl.\u201d", "words": 242}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Babbitt walked to the bar, and saw in the mirror that his face was as\nwhite as chalk. For the first time he had looked Truth in the eyes.\nOthers had lied to him; he had dissembled with himself. He was a\ndrunkard, and had not known it. What he had fondly imagined was a\npleasant exhilaration had been maudlin intoxication. His fancied wit\nhad been drivel; his gay humors nothing but the noisy vagaries of a\nsot. But, never again! \u201cA glass of seltzer,\u201d he said to the bartender. A little silence fell upon the group of his cronies, who had been\nexpecting him to join them. \u201cGoing off the stuff, Bob?\u201d one of them asked politely and with more\nformality than the highballs ever called forth. \u201cYes,\u201d said Babbitt. Some one of the group took up the unwashed thread of a story he had\nbeen telling; the bartender shoved over a dime and a nickel change from\nthe quarter, ungarnished with his customary smile; and Babbitt walked\nout. Now, Babbitt had a home and a wife\u2014but that is another story. And I\nwill tell you that story, which will show you a better habit and a\nworse story than you could find in the man who invented the phrase. It began away up in Sullivan County, where so many rivers and so much\ntrouble begins\u2014or begin; how would you say that? It was July, and\nJessie was a summer boarder at the Mountain Squint Hotel, and Bob, who\nwas just out of college, saw her one day\u2014and they were married in\nSeptember. That\u2019s the tabloid novel\u2014one swallow of water, and it\u2019s\ngone. But those July days! Let the exclamation point expound it, for I shall not. For particulars\nyou might read up on \u201cRomeo and Juliet,\u201d and Abraham Lincoln\u2019s\nthrilling sonnet about \u201cYou can fool some of the people,\u201d &c., and\nDarwin\u2019s works.", "words": 315}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But one thing I must tell you about. Both of them were mad over Omar\u2019s\nRubaiyat. They knew every verse of the old bluffer by heart\u2014not\nconsecutively, but picking \u2019em out here and there as you fork the\nmushrooms in a fifty-cent steak \u00e0 la Bordelaise. Sullivan County is\nfull of rocks and trees; and Jessie used to sit on them, and\u2014please be\ngood\u2014used to sit on the rocks; and Bob had a way of standing behind her\nwith his hands over her shoulders holding her hands, and his face close\nto hers, and they would repeat over and over their favorite verses of\nthe old tent-maker. They saw only the poetry and philosophy of the\nlines then\u2014indeed, they agreed that the Wine was only an image, and\nthat what was meant to be celebrated was some divinity, or maybe Love\nor Life. However, at that time neither of them had tasted the stuff\nthat goes with a sixty-cent _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_. Where was I? Oh, they married and came to New York. Bob showed his\ncollege diploma, and accepted a position filling inkstands in a\nlawyer\u2019s office at $15 a week. At the end of two years he had worked up\nto $50, and gotten his first taste of Bohemia\u2014the kind that won\u2019t stand\nthe borax and formaldehyde tests.", "words": 219}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen. To Jess, accustomed\nto the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, the dreggy Bohemia\nwas sugar and spice. She hung fish seines on the walls of her rooms,\nand bought a rakish-looking sideboard, and learned to play the banjo.\nTwice or thrice a week they dined at French or Italian _tables d\u2019h\u00f4te_\nin a cloud of smoke, and brag and unshorn hair. Jess learned to drink a\ncocktail in order to get the cherry. At home she smoked a cigarette\nafter dinner. She learned to pronounce Chianti, and leave her olive\nstones for the waiter to pick up. Once she essayed to say la, la, la!\nin a crowd but got only as far as the second one. They met one or two\ncouples while dining out and became friendly with them. The sideboard\nwas stocked with Scotch and rye and a liqueur. They had their new\nfriends in to dinner and all were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some\nplastering fell in the room below them, for which Bob had to pay $4.50.\nThus they footed it merrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that\nhas no boundary lines or government. And soon Bob fell in with his cronies and learned to keep his foot on\nthe little rail six inches above the floor for an hour or so every\nafternoon before he went home. Drink always rubbed him the right way,\nand he would reach his rooms as jolly as a sandboy. Jessie would meet\nhim at the door, and generally they would dance some insane kind of a\nrigadoon about the floor by way of greeting. Once when Bob\u2019s feet\nbecame confused and he tumbled headlong over a foot-stool Jessie\nlaughed so heartily and long that he had to throw all the couch pillows\nat her to make her hush.", "words": 317}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In such wise life was speeding for them on the day when Bob Babbitt\nfirst felt the power that the giftie gi\u2019ed him. But let us get back to our lamb and mint sauce. When Bob got home that evening he found Jessie in a long apron cutting\nup a lobster for the Newburg. Usually when Bob came in mellow from his\nhour at the bar his welcome was hilarious, though somewhat tinctured\nwith Scotch smoke. By screams and snatches of song and certain audible testimonials of\ndomestic felicity was his advent proclaimed. When she heard his foot on\nthe stairs the old maid in the hall room always stuffed cotton into her\nears. At first Jessie had shrunk from the rudeness and favor of these\nspiritual greetings, but as the fog of the false Bohemia gradually\nencompassed her she came to accept them as love\u2019s true and proper\ngreeting. Bob came in without a word, smiled, kissed her neatly but noiselessly,\ntook up a paper and sat down. In the hall room the old maid held her\ntwo plugs of cotton poised, filled with anxiety. Jessie dropped lobster and knife and ran to him with frightened eyes. \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Bob, are you ill?\u201d \u201cNot at all, dear.\u201d \u201cThen what\u2019s the matter with you?\u201d \u201cNothing.\u201d Hearken, brethren. When She-who-has-a-right-to-ask interrogates you\nconcerning a change she finds in your mood answer her thus: Tell her\nthat you, in a sudden rage, have murdered your grandmother; tell her\nthat you have robbed orphans and that remorse has stricken you; tell\nher your fortune is swept away; that you are beset by enemies, by\nbunions, by any kind of malevolent fate; but do not, if peace and\nhappiness are worth as much as a grain of mustard seed to you\u2014do not\nanswer her \u201cNothing.\u201d", "words": 302}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Jessie went back to the lobster in silence. She cast looks of darkest\nsuspicion at Bob. He had never acted that way before. When dinner was on the table she set out the bottle of Scotch and the\nglasses. Bob declined. \u201cTell you the truth, Jess,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve cut out the drink. Help\nyourself, of course. If you don\u2019t mind I\u2019ll try some of the seltzer\nstraight.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019ve stopped drinking?\u201d she said, looking at him steadily and\nunsmilingly. \u201cWhat for?\u201d \u201cIt wasn\u2019t doing me any good,\u201d said Bob. \u201cDon\u2019t you approve of the\nidea?\u201d Jessie raised her eyebrows and one shoulder slightly. \u201cEntirely,\u201d she said with a sculptured smile. \u201cI could not\nconscientiously advise any one to drink or smoke, or whistle on\nSunday.\u201d The meal was finished almost in silence. Bob tried to make talk, but\nhis efforts lacked the stimulus of previous evenings. He felt\nmiserable, and once or twice his eye wandered toward the bottle, but\neach time the scathing words of his bibulous friend sounded in his ear,\nand his mouth set with determination. Jessie felt the change deeply. The essence of their lives seemed to\nhave departed suddenly. The restless fever, the false gayety, the\nunnatural excitement of the shoddy Bohemia in which they had lived had\ndropped away in the space of the popping of a cork. She stole curious\nand forlorn glances at the dejected Bob, who bore the guilty look of at\nleast a wife-beater or a family tyrant. After dinner the colored maid who came in daily to perform such chores\ncleared away the things. Jessie, with an unreadable countenance,\nbrought back the bottle of Scotch and the glasses and a bowl of cracked\nice and set them on the table.", "words": 291}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMay I ask,\u201d she said, with some of the ice in her tones, \u201cwhether I am\nto be included in your sudden spasm of goodness? If not, I\u2019ll make one\nfor myself. It\u2019s rather chilly this evening, for some reason.\u201d \u201cOh, come now, Jess,\u201d said Bob good-naturedly, \u201cdon\u2019t be too rough on\nme. Help yourself, by all means. There\u2019s no danger of your overdoing\nit. But I thought there was with me; and that\u2019s why I quit. Have yours,\nand then let\u2019s get out the banjo and try over that new quickstep.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ve heard,\u201d said Jessie in the tones of the oracle, \u201cthat drinking\nalone is a pernicious habit. No, I don\u2019t think I feel like playing this\nevening. If we are going to reform we may as well abandon the evil\nhabit of banjo-playing, too.\u201d She took up a book and sat in her little willow rocker on the other\nside of the table. Neither of them spoke for half an hour. And then Bob laid down his paper and got up with a strange, absent look\non his face and went behind her chair and reached over her shoulders,\ntaking her hands in his, and laid his face close to hers. In a moment to Jessie the walls of the seine-hung room vanished, and\nshe saw the Sullivan County hills and rills. Bob felt her hands quiver\nin his as he began the verse from old Omar: \u201cCome, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring\nThe Winter Garment of Repentance fling:\nThe Bird of Time has but a little way\nTo fly\u2014and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing!\u201d And then he walked to the table and poured a stiff drink of Scotch into\na glass. But in that moment a mountain breeze had somehow found its way in and\nblown away the mist of the false Bohemia.", "words": 312}, {"story": 72, "title": "THE RUBAIYAT OF A SCOTCH HIGHBALL", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Jessie leaped and with one fierce sweep of her hand sent the bottle and\nglasses crashing to the floor. The same motion of her arm carried it\naround Bob\u2019s neck, where it met its mate and fastened tight. \u201cOh, my God, Bobbie\u2014not that verse\u2014I see now. I wasn\u2019t always such a\nfool, was I? The other one, boy\u2014the one that says: \u2018Remould it to the\nHeart\u2019s Desire.\u2019 Say that one\u2014\u2018to the Heart\u2019s Desire.\u2019\u201d \u201cI know that one,\u201d said Bob. \u201cIt goes: \u201c\u2018Ah! Love, could you and I with Him conspire\nTo grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire\nWould not we\u2014\u2019\u201d \u201cLet me finish it,\u201d said Jessie. \u201c\u2018Would not we shatter it to bits\u2014and then\nRemould it nearer to the Heart\u2019s Desire!\u2019\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s shattered all right,\u201d said Bob, crunching some glass under his\nheel. In some dungeon below the accurate ear of Mrs. Pickens, the landlady,\nlocated the smash. \u201cIt\u2019s that wild Mr. Babbitt coming home soused again,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd\nhe\u2019s got such a nice little wife, too!\u201d", "words": 169}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cEighty-first street\u2014let \u2019em out, please,\u201d yelled the shepherd in blue. A flock of citizen sheep scrambled out and another flock scrambled\naboard. Ding-ding! The cattle cars of the Manhattan Elevated rattled\naway, and John Perkins drifted down the stairway of the station with\nthe released flock. John walked slowly toward his flat. Slowly, because in the lexicon of\nhis daily life there was no such word as \u201cperhaps.\u201d There are no\nsurprises awaiting a man who has been married two years and lives in a\nflat. As he walked John Perkins prophesied to himself with gloomy and\ndowntrodden cynicism the foregone conclusions of the monotonous day.", "words": 106}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Katy would meet him at the door with a kiss flavored with cold cream\nand butter-scotch. He would remove his coat, sit upon a macadamized\nlounge and read, in the evening paper, of Russians and Japs slaughtered\nby the deadly linotype. For dinner there would be pot roast, a salad\nflavored with a dressing warranted not to crack or injure the leather,\nstewed rhubarb and the bottle of strawberry marmalade blushing at the\ncertificate of chemical purity on its label. After dinner Katy would\nshow him the new patch in her crazy quilt that the iceman had cut for\nher off the end of his four-in-hand. At half-past seven they would\nspread newspapers over the furniture to catch the pieces of plastering\nthat fell when the fat man in the flat overhead began to take his\nphysical culture exercises. Exactly at eight Hickey & Mooney, of the\nvaudeville team (unbooked) in the flat across the hall, would yield to\nthe gentle influence of delirium tremens and begin to overturn chairs\nunder the delusion that Hammerstein was pursuing them with a\nfive-hundred-dollar-a-week contract. Then the gent at the window across\nthe air-shaft would get out his flute; the nightly gas leak would steal\nforth to frolic in the highways; the dumbwaiter would slip off its\ntrolley; the janitor would drive Mrs. Zanowitski\u2019s five children once\nmore across the Yalu, the lady with the champagne shoes and the Skye\nterrier would trip downstairs and paste her Thursday name over her bell\nand letter-box\u2014and the evening routine of the Frogmore flats would be\nunder way. John Perkins knew these things would happen. And he knew that at a\nquarter past eight he would summon his nerve and reach for his hat, and\nthat his wife would deliver this speech in a querulous tone: \u201cNow, where are you going, I\u2019d like to know, John Perkins?\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cThought I\u2019d drop up to McCloskey\u2019s,\u201d he would answer, \u201cand play a game\nor two of pool with the fellows.\u201d Of late such had been John Perkins\u2019s habit. At ten or eleven he would\nreturn. Sometimes Katy would be asleep; sometimes waiting up, ready to\nmelt in the crucible of her ire a little more gold plating from the\nwrought steel chains of matrimony. For these things Cupid will have to\nanswer when he stands at the bar of justice with his victims from the\nFrogmore flats. To-night John Perkins encountered a tremendous upheaval of the\ncommonplace when he reached his door. No Katy was there with her\naffectionate, confectionate kiss. The three rooms seemed in portentous\ndisorder. All about lay her things in confusion. Shoes in the middle of\nthe floor, curling tongs, hair bows, kimonos, powder box, jumbled\ntogether on dresser and chairs\u2014this was not Katy\u2019s way. With a sinking\nheart John saw the comb with a curling cloud of her brown hair among\nits teeth. Some unusual hurry and perturbation must have possessed her,\nfor she always carefully placed these combings in the little blue vase\non the mantel to be some day formed into the coveted feminine \u201crat.\u201d Hanging conspicuously to the gas jet by a string was a folded paper.\nJohn seized it. It was a note from his wife running thus: \u201cDear John: I just had a telegram saying mother is very sick. I am\ngoing to take the 4.30 train. Brother Sam is going to meet me at the\ndepot there. There is cold mutton in the ice box. I hope it isn\u2019t her\nquinzy again. Pay the milkman 50 cents. She had it bad last spring.\nDon\u2019t forget to write to the company about the gas meter, and your good\nsocks are in the top drawer. I will write to-morrow. Hastily,\nKATY.\u201d", "words": 310}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Never during their two years of matrimony had he and Katy been\nseparated for a night. John read the note over and over in a\ndumbfounded way. Here was a break in a routine that had never varied,\nand it left him dazed. There on the back of a chair hung, pathetically empty and formless, the\nred wrapper with black dots that she always wore while getting the\nmeals. Her week-day clothes had been tossed here and there in her\nhaste. A little paper bag of her favorite butter-scotch lay with its\nstring yet unwound. A daily paper sprawled on the floor, gaping\nrectangularly where a railroad time-table had been clipped from it.\nEverything in the room spoke of a loss, of an essence gone, of its soul\nand life departed. John Perkins stood among the dead remains with a\nqueer feeling of desolation in his heart. He began to set the rooms tidy as well as he could. When he touched her\nclothes a thrill of something like terror went through him. He had\nnever thought what existence would be without Katy. She had become so\nthoroughly annealed into his life that she was like the air he\nbreathed\u2014necessary but scarcely noticed. Now, without warning, she was\ngone, vanished, as completely absent as if she had never existed. Of\ncourse it would be only for a few days, or at most a week or two, but\nit seemed to him as if the very hand of death had pointed a finger at\nhis secure and uneventful home.", "words": 258}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "John dragged the cold mutton from the ice-box, made coffee and sat down\nto a lonely meal face to face with the strawberry marmalade\u2019s shameless\ncertificate of purity. Bright among withdrawn blessings now appeared to\nhim the ghosts of pot roasts and the salad with tan polish dressing.\nHis home was dismantled. A quinzied mother-in-law had knocked his lares\nand penates sky-high. After his solitary meal John sat at a front\nwindow. He did not care to smoke. Outside the city roared to him to come join\nin its dance of folly and pleasure. The night was his. He might go\nforth unquestioned and thrum the strings of jollity as free as any gay\nbachelor there. He might carouse and wander and have his fling until\ndawn if he liked; and there would be no wrathful Katy waiting for him,\nbearing the chalice that held the dregs of his joy. He might play pool\nat McCloskey\u2019s with his roistering friends until Aurora dimmed the\nelectric bulbs if he chose. The hymeneal strings that had curbed him\nalways when the Frogmore flats had palled upon him were loosened. Katy\nwas gone. John Perkins was not accustomed to analyzing his emotions. But as he\nsat in his Katy-bereft 10\u00d712 parlor he hit unerringly upon the keynote\nof his discomfort. He knew now that Katy was necessary to his\nhappiness. His feeling for her, lulled into unconsciousness by the dull\nround of domesticity, had been sharply stirred by the loss of her\npresence. Has it not been dinned into us by proverb and sermon and\nfable that we never prize the music till the sweet-voiced bird has\nflown\u2014or in other no less florid and true utterances?", "words": 283}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m a double-dyed dub,\u201d mused John Perkins, \u201cthe way I\u2019ve been\ntreating Katy. Off every night playing pool and bumming with the boys\ninstead of staying home with her. The poor girl here all alone with\nnothing to amuse her, and me acting that way! John Perkins, you\u2019re the\nworst kind of a shine. I\u2019m going to make it up for the little girl.\nI\u2019ll take her out and let her see some amusement. And I\u2019ll cut out the\nMcCloskey gang right from this minute.\u201d Yes, there was the city roaring outside for John Perkins to come dance\nin the train of Momus. And at McCloskey\u2019s the boys were knocking the\nballs idly into the pockets against the hour for the nightly game. But\nno primrose way nor clicking cue could woo the remorseful soul of\nPerkins the bereft. The thing that was his, lightly held and half\nscorned, had been taken away from him, and he wanted it. Backward to a\ncertain man named Adam, whom the cherubim bounced from the orchard,\ncould Perkins, the remorseful, trace his descent. Near the right hand of John Perkins stood a chair. On the back of it\nstood Katy\u2019s blue shirtwaist. It still retained something of her\ncontour. Midway of the sleeves were fine, individual wrinkles made by\nthe movements of her arms in working for his comfort and pleasure. A\ndelicate but impelling odor of bluebells came from it. John took it and\nlooked long and soberly at the unresponsive grenadine. Katy had never\nbeen unresponsive. Tears:\u2014yes, tears\u2014came into John Perkins\u2019s eyes.\nWhen she came back things would be different. He would make up for all\nhis neglect. What was life without her? The door opened. Katy walked in carrying a little hand satchel. John\nstared at her stupidly.", "words": 298}, {"story": 73, "title": "THE PENDULUM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cMy! I\u2019m glad to get back,\u201d said Katy. \u201cMa wasn\u2019t sick to amount to\nanything. Sam was at the depot, and said she just had a little spell,\nand got all right soon after they telegraphed. So I took the next train\nback. I\u2019m just dying for a cup of coffee.\u201d Nobody heard the click and rattle of the cog-wheels as the third-floor\nfront of the Frogmore flats buzzed its machinery back into the Order of\nThings. A band slipped, a spring was touched, the gear was adjusted and\nthe wheels revolve in their old orbit. John Perkins looked at the clock. It was 8.15. He reached for his hat\nand walked to the door. \u201cNow, where are you going, I\u2019d like to know, John Perkins?\u201d asked Katy,\nin a querulous tone. \u201cThought I\u2019d drop up to McCloskey\u2019s,\u201d said John, \u201cand play a game or\ntwo of pool with the fellows.\u201d", "words": 151}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans\nwho are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits\nand marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used\nto. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some\ntalk of the Puritans, but don\u2019t just remember who they were. Bet we can\nlick \u2019em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that\nsounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since\nthe Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking\nout advance information to \u2019em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an\ninstitution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year\non which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It\nis the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration,\nexclusively American. And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions\non this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider\nrate than those of England are\u2014thanks to our git-up and enterprise. Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter\nUnion Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every\nThanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at\n1 o\u2019clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to\nhim\u2014Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart,\nand equally on the other side.", "words": 283}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But to-day Stuffy Pete\u2019s appearance at the annual trysting place seemed\nto have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger\nwhich, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such\nextended intervals. Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had\nleft him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His\neyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and\ngravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a\nsenatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his\nupturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by\nkind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn, strewing the\nearth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the\nwishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought\nhim only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the\ncaloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters\nand ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the\nroast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and\nice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the\nworld with after-dinner contempt.", "words": 207}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion\nnear the beginning of Fifth avenue, in which lived two old ladies of\nancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the\nexistence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared\nsolely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to\nstation a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first\nhungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and\nbanquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to\nthe park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of\nthe castle. After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was\nconscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a\ntremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his\neyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod\nends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel. For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth avenue toward his bench.", "words": 189}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there\nand found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old\nGentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for\nnine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant\nand watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England\nunconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so\nbad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered\nhimself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque\nwe must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it\nget away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in\nindustrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets. The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution\nthat he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeding of Stuffy Pete was\nnothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for\nbreakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It\nshowed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New\nY\u2014ahem!\u2014America. The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in\nblack, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won\u2019t stay on\nyour nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year,\nand he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked\nhandle. As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like\nsome woman\u2019s over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He\nwould have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have\nseparated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old\nladies done their work.", "words": 302}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGood morning,\u201d said the Old Gentleman. \u201cI am glad to perceive that the\nvicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about\nthe beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving\nis well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I\nwill provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being\naccord with the mental.\u201d That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day\nfor nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution.\nNothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of\nIndependence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy\u2019s ears. But\nnow he looked up at the Old Gentleman\u2019s face with tearful agony in his\nown. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring\nbrow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to\nthe wind. Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech\nrather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every\ntime that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after\nhe was gone\u2014a son who would stand proud and strong before some\nsubsequent Stuffy, and say: \u201cIn memory of my father.\u201d Then it would be\nan Institution.", "words": 220}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one\nof the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet\nstreets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little\nconservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in\nthe Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New\nJersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly,\nthe ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the\nautumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman\u2019s\noccupations. Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in\nhis own self-pity. The Old Gentleman\u2019s eyes were bright with the\ngiving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his\nlittle black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was\nbeautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the\nends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a\npot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds\nnine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy\u2019s old formula\nof acceptance. \u201cThankee, sir. I\u2019ll go with ye, and much obliged. I\u2019m very hungry,\nsir.\u201d The coma of repletion had not prevented from entering Stuffy\u2019s mind the\nconviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving\nappetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of\nestablished custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to\nthis kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free;\nbut in order to establish tradition some one must be a repetend\u2014a\nrepeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See\none here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.", "words": 315}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The Old Gentleman led his annual prot\u00e9g\u00e9 southward to the restaurant,\nand to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were\nrecognized. \u201cHere comes de old guy,\u201d said a waiter, \u201cdat blows dat same bum to a\nmeal every Thanksgiving.\u201d The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at\nhis corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the\ntable with holiday food\u2014and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for\nhunger\u2019s expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a\ncrown of imperishable bay. No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy.\nTurkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast\nas they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered\nthe restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his\nhonor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the\nlook of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman\u2019s face\u2014a happier look\nthan even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisius had ever brought\nto it\u2014and he had not the heart to see it wane. In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. \u201cThankee kindly, sir,\u201d\nhe puffed like a leaky steam pipe; \u201cthankee kindly for a hearty meal.\u201d\nThen he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen.\nA waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door.\nThe Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving\nthree nickels for the waiter. They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going\nsouth, Stuffy north. Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then\nhe seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and\nfell to the sidewalk like a sunstricken horse.", "words": 309}, {"story": 74, "title": "TWO THANKSGIVING DAY GENTLEMEN", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly\nat his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to\nthe patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital.\nThere they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange\ndiseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the\nbare steel. And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And\nthey laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked\ngood for the bill. But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses\nwhose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases. \u201cThat nice old gentleman over there, now,\u201d he said, \u201cyou wouldn\u2019t think\nthat was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He\ntold me he hadn\u2019t eaten a thing for three days.\u201d", "words": 159}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Hastings Beauchamp Morley sauntered across Union Square with a pitying\nlook at the hundreds that lolled upon the park benches. They were a\nmotley lot, he thought; the men with stolid, animal, unshaven faces;\nthe women wriggling and self-conscious, twining and untwining their\nfeet that hung four inches above the gravelled walks. Were I Mr. Carnegie or Mr. Rockefeller I would put a few millions in my\ninside pocket and make an appointment with all the Park Commissioners\n(around the corner, if necessary), and arrange for benches in all the\nparks of the world low enough for women to sit upon, and rest their\nfeet upon the ground. After that I might furnish libraries to towns\nthat would pay for \u2019em, or build sanitariums for crank professors, and\ncall \u2019em colleges, if I wanted to. Women\u2019s rights societies have been laboring for many years after\nequality with man. With what result? When they sit on a bench they must\ntwist their ankles together and uncomfortably swing their highest\nFrench heels clear of earthly support. Begin at the bottom, ladies. Get\nyour feet on the ground, and then rise to theories of mental equality. Hastings Beauchamp Morley was carefully and neatly dressed. That was\nthe result of an instinct due to his birth and breeding. It is denied\nus to look further into a man\u2019s bosom than the starch on his shirt\nfront; so it is left to us only to recount his walks and conversation. Morley had not a cent in his pockets; but he smiled pityingly at a\nhundred grimy, unfortunate ones who had no more, and who would have no\nmore when the sun\u2019s first rays yellowed the tall paper-cutter building\non the west side of the square. But Morley would have enough by then.\nSundown had seen his pockets empty before; but sunrise had always seen\nthem lined.", "words": 311}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "First he went to the house of a clergyman off Madison avenue and\npresented a forged letter of introduction that holily purported to\nissue from a pastorate in Indiana. This netted him $5 when backed up by\na realistic romance of a delayed remittance. On the sidewalk, twenty steps from the clergyman\u2019s door, a pale-faced,\nfat man huskily enveloped him with a raised, red fist and the voice of\na bell buoy, demanding payment of an old score. \u201cWhy, Bergman, man,\u201d sang Morley, dulcetly, \u201cis this you? I was just on\nmy way up to your place to settle up. That remittance from my aunt\narrived only this morning. Wrong address was the trouble. Come up to\nthe corner and I\u2019ll square up. Glad to see you. Saves me a walk.\u201d Four drinks placated the emotional Bergman. There was an air about\nMorley when he was backed by money in hand that would have stayed off a\ncall loan at Rothschilds\u2019. When he was penniless his bluff was pitched\nhalf a tone lower, but few are competent to detect the difference in\nthe notes. \u201cYou gum to mine blace and bay me to-morrow, Mr. Morley,\u201d said Bergman.\n\u201cOxcuse me dat I dun you on der street. But I haf not seen you in dree\nmont\u2019. Pros\u2019t!\u201d Morley walked away with a crooked smile on his pale, smooth face. The\ncredulous, drink-softened German amused him. He would have to avoid\nTwenty-ninth street in the future. He had not been aware that Bergman\never went home by that route. At the door of a darkened house two squares to the north Morley knocked\nwith a peculiar sequence of raps. The door opened to the length of a\nsix-inch chain, and the pompous, important black face of an African\nguardian imposed itself in the opening. Morley was admitted.", "words": 305}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In a third-story room, in an atmosphere opaque with smoke, he hung for\nten minutes above a roulette wheel. Then downstairs he crept, and was\nout-sped by the important negro, jingling in his pocket the 40 cents in\nsilver that remained to him of his five-dollar capital. At the corner\nhe lingered, undecided. Across the street was a drug store, well lighted, sending forth gleams\nfrom the German silver and crystal of its soda fountain and glasses.\nAlong came a youngster of five, headed for the dispensary, stepping\nhigh with the consequence of a big errand, possibly one to which his\nadvancing age had earned him promotion. In his hand he clutched\nsomething tightly, publicly, proudly, conspicuously. Morley stopped him with his winning smile and soft speech. \u201cMe?\u201d said the youngster. \u201cI\u2019m doin\u2019 to the drug \u2019tore for mamma. She\ndave me a dollar to buy a bottle of med\u2019cin.\u201d \u201cNow, now, now!\u201d said Morley. \u201cSuch a big man you are to be doing\nerrands for mamma. I must go along with my little man to see that the\ncars don\u2019t run over him. And on the way we\u2019ll have some chocolates. Or\nwould he rather have lemon drops?\u201d Morley entered the drug store leading the child by the hand. He\npresented the prescription that had been wrapped around the money. On his face was a smile, predatory, parental, politic, profound. \u201cAqua pura, one pint,\u201d said he to the druggist. \u201cSodium chloride, ten\ngrains. Fiat solution. And don\u2019t try to skin me, because I know all\nabout the number of gallons of H2O in the Croton reservoir, and I\nalways use the other ingredient on my potatoes.\u201d \u201cFifteen cents,\u201d said the druggist, with a wink after he had compounded\nthe order. \u201cI see you understand pharmacy. A dollar is the regular\nprice.\u201d \u201cTo gulls,\u201d said Morley, smilingly.", "words": 307}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He settled the wrapped bottle carefully in the child\u2019s arms and\nescorted him to the corner. In his own pocket he dropped the 85 cents\naccruing to him by virtue of his chemical knowledge. \u201cLook out for the cars, sonny,\u201d he said, cheerfully, to his small\nvictim. Two street cars suddenly swooped in opposite directions upon the\nyoungster. Morley dashed between them and pinned the infantile\nmessenger by the neck, holding him in safety. Then from the corner of\nhis street he sent him on his way, swindled, happy, and sticky with\nvile, cheap candy from the Italian\u2019s fruit stand. Morley went to a restaurant and ordered a sirloin and a pint of\ninexpensive Chateau Breuille. He laughed noiselessly, but so genuinely\nthat the waiter ventured to premise that good news had come his way. \u201cWhy, no,\u201d said Morley, who seldom held conversation with any one. \u201cIt\nis not that. It is something else that amuses me. Do you know what\nthree divisions of people are easiest to over-reach in transactions of\nall kinds?\u201d \u201cSure,\u201d said the waiter, calculating the size of the tip promised by\nthe careful knot of Morley\u2019s tie; \u201cthere\u2019s the buyers from the dry\ngoods stores in the South during August, and honeymooners from Staten\nIsland, and\u201d\u2014 \u201cWrong!\u201d said Morley, chuckling happily. \u201cThe answer is just\u2014men, women\nand children. The world\u2014well, say New York and as far as summer\nboarders can swim out from Long Island\u2014is full of greenhorns. Two\nminutes longer on the broiler would have made this steak fit to be\neaten by a gentleman, Francois.\u201d \u201cIf yez t\u2019inks it\u2019s on de bum,\u201d said the waiter, \u201cOi\u2019ll\u201d\u2014 Morley lifted his hand in protest\u2014slightly martyred protest. \u201cIt will do,\u201d he said, magnanimously. \u201cAnd now, green Chartreuse,\nfrappe and a demi-tasse.\u201d", "words": 295}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Morley went out leisurely and stood on a corner where two tradeful\narteries of the city cross. With a solitary dime in his pocket, he\nstood on the curb watching with confident, cynical, smiling eyes the\ntides of people that flowed past him. Into that stream he must cast his\nnet and draw fish for his further sustenance and need. Good Izaak\nWalton had not the half of his self-reliance and bait-lore. A joyful party of four\u2014two women and two men\u2014fell upon him with cries\nof delight. There was a dinner party on\u2014where had he been for a\nfortnight past?\u2014what luck to thus run upon him! They surrounded and\nengulfed him\u2014he must join them\u2014tra la la\u2014and the rest. One with a white hat plume curving to the shoulder touched his sleeve,\nand cast at the others a triumphant look that said: \u201cSee what I can do\nwith him?\u201d and added her queen\u2019s command to the invitations. \u201cI leave you to imagine,\u201d said Morley, pathetically, \u201chow it desolates\nme to forego the pleasure. But my friend Carruthers, of the New York\nYacht Club, is to pick me up here in his motor car at 8.\u201d The white plume tossed, and the quartet danced like midges around an\narc light down the frolicsome way. Morley stood, turning over and over the dime in his pocket and laughing\ngleefully to himself. \u201c\u2018Front,\u2019\u201d he chanted under his breath; \u201c\u2018front\u2019\ndoes it. It is trumps in the game. How they take it in! Men, women and\nchildren\u2014forgeries, water-and-salt lies\u2014how they all take it in!\u201d An old man with an ill-fitting suit, a straggling gray beard and a\ncorpulent umbrella hopped from the conglomeration of cabs and street\ncars to the sidewalk at Morley\u2019s side.", "words": 289}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cStranger,\u201d said he, \u201cexcuse me for troubling you, but do you know\nanybody in this here town named Solomon Smothers? He\u2019s my son, and I\u2019ve\ncome down from Ellenville to visit him. Be darned if I know what I done\nwith his street and number.\u201d \u201cI do not, sir,\u201d said Morley, half closing his eyes to veil the joy in\nthem. \u201cYou had better apply to the police.\u201d \u201cThe police!\u201d said the old man. \u201cI ain\u2019t done nothin\u2019 to call in the\npolice about. I just come down to see Ben. He lives in a five-story\nhouse, he writes me. If you know anybody by that name and could\u201d\u2014 \u201cI told you I did not,\u201d said Morley, coldly. \u201cI know no one by the name\nof Smithers, and I advise you to\u201d\u2014 \u201cSmothers not Smithers,\u201d interrupted the old man hopefully. \u201cA\nheavy-set man, sandy complected, about twenty-nine, two front teeth\nout, about five foot\u201d\u2014 \u201cOh, \u2018Smothers!\u2019\u201d exclaimed Morley. \u201cSol Smothers? Why, he lives in the\nnext house to me. I thought you said \u2018Smithers.\u2019\u201d Morley looked at his watch. You must have a watch. You can do it for a\ndollar. Better go hungry than forego a gunmetal or the\nninety-eight-cent one that the railroads\u2014according to these\nwatchmakers\u2014are run by. \u201cThe Bishop of Long Island,\u201d said Morley, \u201cwas to meet me here at 8 to\ndine with me at the Kingfishers\u2019 Club. But I can\u2019t leave the father of\nmy friend Sol Smothers alone on the street. By St. Swithin, Mr.\nSmothers, we Wall street men have to work! Tired is no name for it! I\nwas about to step across to the other corner and have a glass of ginger\nale with a dash of sherry when you approached me. You must let me take\nyou to Sol\u2019s house, Mr. Smothers. But, before we take the car I hope\nyou will join me in\u201d\u2014", "words": 315}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "An hour later Morley seated himself on the end of a quiet bench in\nMadison Square, with a twenty-five-cent cigar between his lips and $140\nin deeply creased bills in his inside pocket. Content, light-hearted,\nironical, keenly philosophic, he watched the moon drifting in and out\namidst a maze of flying clouds. An old, ragged man with a low-bowed\nhead sat at the other end of the bench. Presently the old man stirred and looked at his bench companion. In\nMorley\u2019s appearance he seemed to recognize something superior to the\nusual nightly occupants of the benches. \u201cKind sir,\u201d he whined, \u201cif you could spare a dime or even a few pennies\nto one who\u201d\u2014 Morley cut short his stereotyped appeal by throwing him a dollar. \u201cGod bless you!\u201d said the old man. \u201cI\u2019ve been trying to find work for\u201d\u2014 \u201cWork!\u201d echoed Morley with his ringing laugh. \u201cYou are a fool, my\nfriend. The world is a rock to you, no doubt; but you must be an Aaron\nand smite it with your rod. Then things better than water will gush out\nof it for you. That is what the world is for. It gives to me whatever I\nwant from it.\u201d \u201cGod has blessed you,\u201d said the old man. \u201cIt is only work that I have\nknown. And now I can get no more.\u201d \u201cI must go home,\u201d said Morley, rising and buttoning his coat. \u201cI\nstopped here only for a smoke. I hope you may find work.\u201d \u201cMay your kindness be rewarded this night,\u201d said the old man.", "words": 259}, {"story": 75, "title": "THE ASSESSOR OF SUCCESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh,\u201d said Morley, \u201cyou have your wish already. I am satisfied. I think\ngood luck follows me like a dog. I am for yonder bright hotel across\nthe square for the night. And what a moon that is lighting up the city\nto-night. I think no one enjoys the moonlight and such little things as\nI do. Well, a good-night to you.\u201d Morley walked to the corner where he would cross to his hotel. He blew\nslow streams of smoke from his cigar heavenward. A policeman passing\nsaluted to his benign nod. What a fine moon it was. The clock struck nine as a girl just entering womanhood stopped on the\ncorner waiting for the approaching car. She was hurrying as if homeward\nfrom employment or delay. Her eyes were clear and pure, she was dressed\nin simple white, she looked eagerly for the car and neither to the\nright nor the left. Morley knew her. Eight years before he had sat on the same bench with\nher at school. There had been no sentiment between them\u2014nothing but the\nfriendship of innocent days. But he turned down the side street to a quiet spot and laid his\nsuddenly burning face against the cool iron of a lamp-post, and said\ndully: \u201cGod! I wish I could die.\u201d", "words": 216}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It is well that hay fever and colds do not obtain in the healthful\nvicinity of Cactus City, Texas, for the dry goods emporium of Navarro &\nPlatt, situated there, is not to be sneezed at. Twenty thousand people in Cactus City scatter their silver coin with\nliberal hands for the things that their hearts desire. The bulk of this\nsemiprecious metal goes to Navarro & Platt. Their huge brick building\ncovers enough ground to graze a dozen head of sheep. You can buy of\nthem a rattlesnake-skin necktie, an automobile or an eighty-five\ndollar, latest style, ladies\u2019 tan coat in twenty different shades.\nNavarro & Platt first introduced pennies west of the Colorado River.\nThey had been ranchmen with business heads, who saw that the world did\nnot necessarily have to cease its revolutions after free grass went\nout. Every Spring, Navarro, senior partner, fifty-five, half Spanish,\ncosmopolitan, able, polished, had \u201cgone on\u201d to New York to buy goods.\nThis year he shied at taking up the long trail. He was undoubtedly\ngrowing older; and he looked at his watch several times a day before\nthe hour came for his siesta. \u201cJohn,\u201d he said, to his junior partner, \u201cyou shall go on this year to\nbuy the goods.\u201d Platt looked tired. \u201cI\u2019m told,\u201d said he, \u201cthat New York is a plumb dead town; but I\u2019ll go.\nI can take a whirl in San Antone for a few days on my way and have some\nfun.\u201d Two weeks later a man in a Texas full dress suit\u2014black frock coat,\nbroad-brimmed soft white hat, and lay-down collar 3-4 inch high, with\nblack, wrought iron necktie\u2014entered the wholesale cloak and suit\nestablishment of Zizzbaum & Son, on lower Broadway.", "words": 287}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Old Zizzbaum had the eye of an osprey, the memory of an elephant and a\nmind that unfolded from him in three movements like the puzzle of the\ncarpenter\u2019s rule. He rolled to the front like a brunette polar bear,\nand shook Platt\u2019s hand. \u201cAnd how is the good Mr. Navarro in Texas?\u201d he said. \u201cThe trip was too\nlong for him this year, so? We welcome Mr. Platt instead.\u201d \u201cA bull\u2019s eye,\u201d said Platt, \u201cand I\u2019d give forty acres of unirrigated\nPecos County land to know how you did it.\u201d \u201cI knew,\u201d grinned Zizzbaum, \u201cjust as I know that the rainfall in El\nPaso for the year was 28.5 inches, or an increase of 15 inches, and\nthat therefore Navarro & Platt will buy a $15,000 stock of suits this\nspring instead of $10,000, as in a dry year. But that will be\nto-morrow. There is first a cigar in my private office that will remove\nfrom your mouth the taste of the ones you smuggle across the Rio Grande\nand like\u2014because they are smuggled.\u201d It was late in the afternoon and business for the day had ended,\nZizzbaum left Platt with a half-smoked cigar, and came out of the\nprivate office to Son, who was arranging his diamond scarfpin before a\nmirror, ready to leave. \u201cAbey,\u201d he said, \u201cyou will have to take Mr. Platt around to-night and\nshow him things. They are customers for ten years. Mr. Navarro and I we\nplayed chess every moment of spare time when he came. That is good, but\nMr. Platt is a young man and this is his first visit to New York. He\nshould amuse easily.\u201d", "words": 277}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAll right,\u201d said Abey, screwing the guard tightly on his pin. \u201cI\u2019ll\ntake him on. After he\u2019s seen the Flatiron and the head waiter at the\nHotel Astor and heard the phonograph play \u2018Under the Old Apple Tree\u2019\nit\u2019ll be half past ten, and Mr. Texas will be ready to roll up in his\nblanket. I\u2019ve got a supper engagement at 11:30, but he\u2019ll be all to the\nMrs. Winslow before then.\u201d The next morning at 10 Platt walked into the store ready to do\nbusiness. He had a bunch of hyacinths pinned on his lapel. Zizzbaum\nhimself waited on him. Navarro & Platt were good customers, and never\nfailed to take their discount for cash. \u201cAnd what did you think of our little town?\u201d asked Zizzbaum, with the\nfatuous smile of the Manhattanite. \u201cI shouldn\u2019t care to live in it,\u201d said the Texan. \u201cYour son and I\nknocked around quite a little last night. You\u2019ve got good water, but\nCactus City is better lit up.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ve got a few lights on Broadway, don\u2019t you think, Mr. Platt?\u201d \u201cAnd a good many shadows,\u201d said Platt. \u201cI think I like your horses\nbest. I haven\u2019t seen a crow-bait since I\u2019ve been in town.\u201d Zizzbaum led him up stairs to show the samples of suits. \u201cAsk Miss Asher to come,\u201d he said to a clerk. Miss Asher came, and Platt, of Navarro & Platt, felt for the first time\nthe wonderful bright light of romance and glory descend upon him. He\nstood still as a granite cliff above the ca\u00f1on of the Colorado, with\nhis wide-open eyes fixed upon her. She noticed his look and flushed a\nlittle, which was contrary to her custom.", "words": 282}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Miss Asher was the crack model of Zizzbaum & Son. She was of the blond\ntype known as \u201cmedium,\u201d and her measurements even went the required\n38-25-42 standard a little better. She had been at Zizzbaum\u2019s two\nyears, and knew her business. Her eye was bright, but cool; and had she\nchosen to match her gaze against the optic of the famed basilisk, that\nfabulous monster\u2019s gaze would have wavered and softened first.\nIncidentally, she knew buyers. \u201cNow, Mr. Platt,\u201d said Zizzbaum, \u201cI want you to see these princess\ngowns in the light shades. They will be the thing in your climate. This\nfirst, if you please, Miss Asher.\u201d Swiftly in and out of the dressing-room the prize model flew, each time\nwearing a new costume and looking more stunning with every change. She\nposed with absolute self-possession before the stricken buyer, who\nstood, tongue-tied and motionless, while Zizzbaum orated oilily of the\nstyles. On the model\u2019s face was her faint, impersonal professional\nsmile that seemed to cover something like weariness or contempt. When the display was over Platt seemed to hesitate. Zizzbaum was a\nlittle anxious, thinking that his customer might be inclined to try\nelsewhere. But Platt was only looking over in his mind the best\nbuilding sites in Cactus City, trying to select one on which to build a\nhouse for his wife-to-be\u2014who was just then in the dressing-room taking\noff an evening gown of lavender and tulle. \u201cTake your time, Mr. Platt,\u201d said Zizzbaum. \u201cThink it over to-night.\nYou won\u2019t find anybody else meet our prices on goods like these. I\u2019m\nafraid you\u2019re having a dull time in New York, Mr. Platt. A young man\nlike you\u2014of course, you miss the society of the ladies. Wouldn\u2019t you\nlike a nice young lady to take out to dinner this evening? Miss Asher,\nnow, is a very nice young lady; she will make it agreeable for you.\u201d", "words": 319}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy, she doesn\u2019t know me,\u201d said Platt, wonderingly. \u201cShe doesn\u2019t know\nanything about me. Would she go? I\u2019m not acquainted with her.\u201d \u201cWould she go?\u201d repeated Zizzbaum, with uplifted eyebrows. \u201cSure, she\nwould go. I will introduce you. Sure, she would go.\u201d He called Miss Asher loudly. She came, calm and slightly contemptuous, in her white shirt waist and\nplain black skirt. \u201cMr. Platt would like the pleasure of your company to dinner this\nevening,\u201d said Zizzbaum, walking away. \u201cSure,\u201d said Miss Asher, looking at the ceiling. \u201cI\u2019d be much pleased.\nNine-eleven West Twentieth street. What time?\u201d \u201cSay seven o\u2019clock.\u201d \u201cAll right, but please don\u2019t come ahead of time. I room with a school\nteacher, and she doesn\u2019t allow any gentlemen to call in the room. There\nisn\u2019t any parlor, so you\u2019ll have to wait in the hall. I\u2019ll be ready.\u201d At half past seven Platt and Miss Asher sat at a table in a Broadway\nrestaurant. She was dressed in a plain, filmy black. Platt didn\u2019t know\nthat it was all a part of her day\u2019s work. With the unobtrusive aid of a good waiter he managed to order a\nrespectable dinner, minus the usual Broadway preliminaries. Miss Asher flashed upon him a dazzling smile. \u201cMayn\u2019t I have something to drink?\u201d she asked. \u201cWhy, certainly,\u201d said Platt. \u201cAnything you want.\u201d \u201cA dry Martini,\u201d she said to the waiter. When it was brought and set before her Platt reached over and took it\naway. \u201cWhat is this?\u201d he asked. \u201cA cocktail, of course.\u201d \u201cI thought it was some kind of tea you ordered. This is liquor. You\ncan\u2019t drink this. What is your first name?\u201d \u201cTo my intimate friends,\u201d said Miss Asher, freezingly, \u201cit is \u2018Helen.\u2019\u201d", "words": 286}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cListen, Helen,\u201d said Platt, leaning over the table. \u201cFor many years\nevery time the spring flowers blossomed out on the prairies I got to\nthinking of somebody that I\u2019d never seen or heard of. I knew it was you\nthe minute I saw you yesterday. I\u2019m going back home to-morrow, and\nyou\u2019re going with me. I know it, for I saw it in your eyes when you\nfirst looked at me. You needn\u2019t kick, for you\u2019ve got to fall into line.\nHere\u2019s a little trick I picked out for you on my way over.\u201d He flicked a two-carat diamond solitaire ring across the table. Miss\nAsher flipped it back to him with her fork. \u201cDon\u2019t get fresh,\u201d she said, severely. \u201cI\u2019m worth a hundred thousand dollars,\u201d said Platt. \u201cI\u2019ll build you the\nfinest house in West Texas.\u201d \u201cYou can\u2019t buy me, Mr. Buyer,\u201d said Miss Asher, \u201cif you had a hundred\nmillion. I didn\u2019t think I\u2019d have to call you down. You didn\u2019t look like\nthe others to me at first, but I see you\u2019re all alike.\u201d \u201cAll who?\u201d asked Platt. \u201cAll you buyers. You think because we girls have to go out to dinner\nwith you or lose our jobs that you\u2019re privileged to say what you\nplease. Well, forget it. I thought you were different from the others,\nbut I see I was mistaken.\u201d Platt struck his fingers on the table with a gesture of sudden,\nilluminating satisfaction. \u201cI\u2019ve got it!\u201d he exclaimed, almost hilariously\u2014\u201cthe Nicholson place,\nover on the north side. There\u2019s a big grove of live oaks and a natural\nlake. The old house can be pulled down and the new one set further\nback.\u201d", "words": 279}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cPut out your pipe,\u201d said Miss Asher. \u201cI\u2019m sorry to wake you up, but\nyou fellows might as well get wise, once for all, to where you stand.\nI\u2019m supposed to go to dinner with you and help jolly you along so\nyou\u2019ll trade with old Zizzy, but don\u2019t expect to find me in any of the\nsuits you buy.\u201d \u201cDo you mean to tell me,\u201d said Platt, \u201cthat you go out this way with\ncustomers, and they all\u2014they all talk to you like I have?\u201d \u201cThey all make plays,\u201d said Miss Asher. \u201cBut I must say that you\u2019ve got\n\u2019em beat in one respect. They generally talk diamonds, while you\u2019ve\nactually dug one up.\u201d \u201cHow long have you been working, Helen?\u201d \u201cGot my name pat, haven\u2019t you? I\u2019ve been supporting myself for eight\nyears. I was a cash girl and a wrapper and then a shop girl until I was\ngrown, and then I got to be a suit model. Mr. Texas Man, don\u2019t you\nthink a little wine would make this dinner a little less dry?\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re not going to drink wine any more, dear. It\u2019s awful to think\nhow\u2014 I\u2019ll come to the store to-morrow and get you. I want you to pick\nout an automobile before we leave. That\u2019s all we need to buy here.\u201d \u201cOh, cut that out. If you knew how sick I am of hearing such talk.\u201d After the dinner they walked down Broadway and came upon Diana\u2019s little\nwooded park. The trees caught Platt\u2019s eye at once, and he must turn\nalong under the winding walk beneath them. The lights shone upon two\nbright tears in the model\u2019s eyes. \u201cI don\u2019t like that,\u201d said Platt. \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d", "words": 286}, {"story": 76, "title": "THE BUYER FROM CACTUS CITY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDon\u2019t you mind,\u201d said Miss Asher. \u201cWell, it\u2019s because\u2014well, I didn\u2019t\nthink you were that kind when I first saw you. But you are all like.\nAnd now will you take me home, or will I have to call a cop?\u201d Platt took her to the door of her boarding-house. They stood for a\nminute in the vestibule. She looked at him with such scorn in her eyes\nthat even his heart of oak began to waver. His arm was half way around\nher waist, when she struck him a stinging blow on the face with her\nopen hand. As he stepped back a ring fell from somewhere and bounded on the tiled\nfloor. Platt groped for it and found it. \u201cNow, take your useless diamond and go, Mr. Buyer,\u201d she said. \u201cThis was the other one\u2014the wedding ring,\u201d said the Texan, holding the\nsmooth gold band on the palm of his hand. Miss Asher\u2019s eyes blazed upon him in the half darkness. \u201cWas that what you meant?\u2014did you\u201d\u2014 Somebody opened the door from inside the house. \u201cGood-night,\u201d said Platt. \u201cI\u2019ll see you at the store to-morrow.\u201d Miss Asher ran up to her room and shook the school teacher until she\nsat up in bed ready to scream \u201cFire!\u201d \u201cWhere is it?\u201d she cried. \u201cThat\u2019s what I want to know,\u201d said the model. \u201cYou\u2019ve studied\ngeography, Emma, and you ought to know. Where is a town called\nCac\u2014Cac\u2014Carac\u2014Caracas City, I think, they called it?\u201d \u201cHow dare you wake me up for that?\u201d said the school teacher. \u201cCaracas\nis in Venezuela, of course.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019s it like?\u201d \u201cWhy, it\u2019s principally earthquakes and negroes and monkeys and malarial\nfever and volcanoes.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d said Miss Asher, blithely; \u201cI\u2019m going there to-morrow.\u201d", "words": 289}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "It cannot be denied that men and women have looked upon one another for\nthe first time and become instantly enamored. It is a risky process,\nthis love at first sight, before she has seen him in Bradstreet or he\nhas seen her in curl papers. But these things do happen; and one\ninstance must form a theme for this story\u2014though not, thank Heaven, to\nthe overshadowing of more vital and important subjects, such as drink,\npolicemen, horses and earldoms. During a certain war a troop calling itself the Gentle Riders rode into\nhistory and one or two ambuscades. The Gentle Riders were recruited\nfrom the aristocracy of the wild men of the West and the wild men of\nthe aristocracy of the East. In khaki there is little telling them one\nfrom another, so they became good friends and comrades all around. Ellsworth Remsen, whose old Knickerbocker descent atoned for his modest\nrating at only ten millions, ate his canned beef gayly by the campfires\nof the Gentle Riders. The war was a great lark to him, so that he\nscarcely regretted polo and planked shad. One of the troopers was a well set up, affable, cool young man, who\ncalled himself O\u2019Roon. To this young man Remsen took an especial\nliking. The two rode side by side during the famous mooted up-hill\ncharge that was disputed so hotly at the time by the Spaniards and\nafterward by the Democrats. After the war Remsen came back to his polo and shad. One day a well set\nup, affable, cool young man disturbed him at his club, and he and\nO\u2019Roon were soon pounding each other and exchanging opprobrious\nepithets after the manner of long-lost friends. O\u2019Roon looked seedy and\nout of luck and perfectly contented. But it seemed that his content was\nonly apparent. \u201cGet me a job, Remsen,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ve just handed a barber my last\nshilling.\u201d", "words": 320}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNo trouble at all,\u201d said Remsen. \u201cI know a lot of men who have banks\nand stores and things downtown. Any particular line you fancy?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d said O\u2019Roon, with a look of interest. \u201cI took a walk in your\nCentral Park this morning. I\u2019d like to be one of those bobbies on\nhorseback. That would be about the ticket. Besides, it\u2019s the only thing\nI could do. I can ride a little and the fresh air suits me. Think you\ncould land that for me?\u201d Remsen was sure that he could. And in a very short time he did. And\nthey who were not above looking at mounted policemen might have seen a\nwell set up, affable, cool young man on a prancing chestnut steed\nattending to his duties along the driveways of the park. And now at the extreme risk of wearying old gentlemen who carry leather\nfob chains, and elderly ladies who\u2014but no! grandmother herself yet\nthrills at foolish, immortal Romeo\u2014there must be a hint of love at\nfirst sight. It came just as Remsen was strolling into Fifth avenue from his club a\nfew doors away.", "words": 189}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A motor car was creeping along foot by foot, impeded by a freshet of\nvehicles that filled the street. In the car was a chauffeur and an old\ngentleman with snowy side whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could\nnot be worn while automobiling except by a personage. Not even a wine\nagent would dare do it. But these two were of no consequence\u2014except,\nperhaps, for the guiding of the machine and the paying for it. At the\nold gentleman\u2019s side sat a young lady more beautiful than pomegranate\nblossoms, more exquisite than the first quarter moon viewed at twilight\nthrough the tops of oleanders. Remsen saw her and knew his fate. He\ncould have flung himself under the very wheels that conveyed her, but\nhe knew that would be the last means of attracting the attention of\nthose who ride in motor cars. Slowly the auto passed, and, if we place\nthe poets above the autoists, carried the heart of Remsen with it. Here\nwas a large city of millions, and many women who at a certain distance\nappear to resemble pomegranate blossoms. Yet he hoped to see her again;\nfor each one fancies that his romance has its own tutelary guardian and\ndivinity. Luckily for Remsen\u2019s peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise\nof a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not many of\nthem\u2014perhaps a score\u2014and there was wassail and things to eat, and\nspeeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation. And when\ndaylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart. But some\nremained upon the battlefield. One of these was Trooper O\u2019Roon, who was\nnot seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the\nobligations they had sworn to the police department.", "words": 297}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m stewed, Remsen,\u201d said O\u2019Roon to his friend. \u201cWhy do they build\nhotels that go round and round like catherine wheels? They\u2019ll take away\nmy shield and break me. I can think and talk\ncon-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. I\u2019ve got\nto go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I\ntell you.\u201d \u201cLook at me,\u201d said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his\nown face; \u201cwhom do you see here?\u201d \u201cGoo\u2019 fellow,\u201d said O\u2019Roon, dizzily, \u201cGoo\u2019 old Remsen.\u201d \u201cNot so,\u201d said Remsen. \u201cYou see Mounted Policeman O\u2019Roon. Look at your\nface\u2014no; you can\u2019t do that without a glass\u2014but look at mine, and think\nof yours. How much alike are we? As two French _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ dinners.\nWith your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm\nnurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under people\u2019s feet in\nthe Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides\nhaving the jolliest lark I\u2019ve been blessed with since we licked Spain.\u201d Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman\nO\u2019Roon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform\ntwo men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each\nother in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen\ntrotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real\npleasures do ten-millionaires have.", "words": 237}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria drawn by a pair\nof fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the\nPark is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who\nlove to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman\nwith snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn\nwhile driving except by a personage. At his side sat the lady of\nRemsen\u2019s heart\u2014the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the\ngibbous moon. Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes looked\ninto his, and but for the ever coward\u2019s heart of a true lover he could\nhave sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty\nyards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The\nbays had bolted. Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was work\ncut out for the impersonator of Policeman O\u2019Roon. The chestnut ranged\nalongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his\neye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to policemen\u2019s\nhorses: \u201cWell, you duffer, are you going to do your share? You\u2019re not O\u2019Roon,\nbut it seems to me if you\u2019d lean to the right you could reach the reins\nof that foolish slow-running bay\u2014ah! you\u2019re all right; O\u2019Roon couldn\u2019t\nhave done it more neatly!\u201d", "words": 241}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsen\u2019s tough\nmuscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped\nfrom his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut,\napproving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the\nsubdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague,\nimpossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked\nincessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious of a pair of\nviolet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar\u2014or\nwhatever the allusion is\u2014and of the lady\u2019s smile and look\u2014a little\nfrightened, but a look that, with the ever coward heart of a true\nlover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and\nbestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch\ncap was especially babbling and insistent. But the eloquent appeal was\nin the eyes of the lady. A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had a\nname to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in\nhigh places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave\nat his end without disgrace. He opened his lips to speak and closed them again. Who was he? Mounted Policeman O\u2019Roon. The badge and the honor of his\ncomrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaire and\nKnickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap\nfrom possible death, where was Policeman O\u2019Roon? Off his beat, exposed,\ndisgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been\nsomething that demanded precedence\u2014the fellowship of men on\nbattlefields fighting an alien foe. Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnut\u2019s ears, and took\nrefuge in vernacularity. \u201cDon\u2019t mention it,\u201d he said stolidly. \u201cWe policemen are paid to do\nthese things. It\u2019s our duty.\u201d", "words": 306}, {"story": 77, "title": "THE BADGE OF POLICEMAN O\u2019ROON", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And he rode away\u2014rode away cursing _noblesse oblige_, but knowing he\ncould never have done anything else. At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and went\nto O\u2019Roon\u2019s room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool\nyoung man who sat by the window smoking cigars. \u201cI wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses,\nbrass buttons and men who can\u2019t drink two glasses of _brut_ without\ngetting upset were at the devil,\u201d said Remsen feelingly. O\u2019Roon smiled with evident satisfaction. \u201cGood old Remsen,\u201d he said, affably, \u201cI know all about it. They trailed\nme down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row at\nhome, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I don\u2019t believe I\ntold you that my Governor was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob\nagainst them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine I\u2019ll never\nforgive you. I\u2019m going to buy him and take him back with me. Oh, yes,\nand I think my sister\u2014Lady Angela, you know\u2014wants particularly for you\nto come up to the hotel with me this evening. Didn\u2019t lose my badge, did\nyou, Remsen? I\u2019ve got to turn that in at Headquarters when I resign.\u201d", "words": 219}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Blinker was displeased. A man of less culture and poise and wealth\nwould have sworn. But Blinker always remembered that he was a\ngentleman\u2014a thing that no gentleman should do. So he merely looked\nbored and sardonic while he rode in a hansom to the center of\ndisturbance, which was the Broadway office of Lawyer Oldport, who was\nagent for the Blinker estate. \u201cI don\u2019t see,\u201d said Blinker, \u201cwhy I should be always signing confounded\npapers. I am packed, and was to have left for the North Woods this\nmorning. Now I must wait until to-morrow morning. I hate night trains.\nMy best razors are, of course, at the bottom of some unidentifiable\ntrunk. It is a plot to drive me to bay rum and a monologueing,\nthumb-handed barber. Give me a pen that doesn\u2019t scratch. I hate pens\nthat scratch.\u201d \u201cSit down,\u201d said double-chinned, gray Lawyer Oldport. \u201cThe worst has\nnot been told you. Oh, the hardships of the rich! The papers are not\nyet ready to sign. They will be laid before you to-morrow at eleven.\nYou will miss another day. Twice shall the barber tweak the helpless\nnose of a Blinker. Be thankful that your sorrows do not embrace a\nhaircut.\u201d \u201cIf,\u201d said Blinker, rising, \u201cthe act did not involve more signing of\npapers I would take my business out of your hands at once. Give me a\ncigar, please.\u201d", "words": 233}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIf,\u201d said Lawyer Oldport, \u201cI had cared to see an old friend\u2019s son\ngulped down at one mouthful by sharks I would have ordered you to take\nit away long ago. Now, let\u2019s quit fooling, Alexander. Besides the\ngrinding task of signing your name some thirty times to-morrow, I must\nimpose upon you the consideration of a matter of business\u2014of business,\nand I may say humanity or right. I spoke to you about this five years\nago, but you would not listen\u2014you were in a hurry for a coaching trip,\nI think. The subject has come up again. The property\u2014\u201d \u201cOh, property!\u201d interrupted Blinker. \u201cDear Mr. Oldport, I think you\nmentioned to-morrow. Let\u2019s have it all at one dose to-morrow\u2014signatures\nand property and snappy rubber bands and that smelly sealing-wax and\nall. Have luncheon with me? Well, I\u2019ll try to remember to drop in at\neleven to-morrow. Morning.\u201d The Blinker wealth was in lands, tenements and hereditaments, as the\nlegal phrase goes. Lawyer Oldport had once taken Alexander in his\nlittle pulmonary gasoline runabout to see the many buildings and rows\nof buildings that he owned in the city. For Alexander was sole heir.\nThey had amused Blinker very much. The houses looked so incapable of\nproducing the big sums of money that Lawyer Oldport kept piling up in\nbanks for him to spend. In the evening Blinker went to one of his clubs, intending to dine.\nNobody was there except some old fogies playing whist who spoke to him\nwith grave politeness and glared at him with savage contempt. Everybody\nwas out of town. But here he was kept in like a schoolboy to write his\nname over and over on pieces of paper. His wounds were deep. Blinker turned his back on the fogies, and said to the club steward who\nhad come forward with some nonsense about cold fresh salmon roe:", "words": 314}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSymons, I\u2019m going to Coney Island.\u201d He said it as one might say:\n\u201cAll\u2019s off; I\u2019m going to jump into the river.\u201d The joke pleased Symons. He laughed within a sixteenth of a note of the\naudibility permitted by the laws governing employees. \u201cCertainly, sir,\u201d he tittered. \u201cOf course, sir, I think I can see you\nat Coney, Mr. Blinker.\u201d Blinker got a paper and looked up the movements of Sunday steamboats.\nThen he found a cab at the first corner and drove to a North River\npier. He stood in line, as democratic as you or I, and bought a ticket,\nand was trampled upon and shoved forward until, at last, he found\nhimself on the upper deck of the boat staring brazenly at a girl who\nsat alone upon a camp stool. But Blinker did not intend to be brazen;\nthe girl was so wonderfully good looking that he forgot for one minute\nthat he was the prince incog, and behaved just as he did in society. She was looking at him, too, and not severely. A puff of wind\nthreatened Blinker\u2019s straw hat. He caught it warily and settled it\nagain. The movement gave the effect of a bow. The girl nodded and\nsmiled, and in another instant he was seated at her side. She was\ndressed all in white, she was paler than Blinker imagined milkmaids and\ngirls of humble stations to be, but she was as tidy as a cherry\nblossom, and her steady, supremely frank gray eyes looked out from the\nintrepid depths of an unshadowed and untroubled soul. \u201cHow dare you raise your hat to me?\u201d she asked, with a smile-redeemed\nseverity. \u201cI didn\u2019t,\u201d Blinker said, but he quickly covered the mistake by\nextending it to \u201cI didn\u2019t know how to keep from it after I saw you.\u201d", "words": 305}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI do not allow gentlemen to sit by me to whom I have not been\nintroduced,\u201d she said, with a sudden haughtiness that deceived him. He\nrose reluctantly, but her clear, teasing laugh brought him down to his\nchair again. \u201cI guess you weren\u2019t going far,\u201d she declared, with beauty\u2019s\nmagnificent self-confidence. \u201cAre you going to Coney Island?\u201d asked Blinker. \u201cMe?\u201d She turned upon him wide-open eyes full of bantering surprise.\n\u201cWhy, what a question! Can\u2019t you see that I\u2019m riding a bicycle in the\npark?\u201d Her drollery took the form of impertinence. \u201cAnd I am laying brick on a tall factory chimney,\u201d said Blinker.\n\u201cMayn\u2019t we see Coney together? I\u2019m all alone and I\u2019ve never been there\nbefore.\u201d \u201cIt depends,\u201d said the girl, \u201con how nicely you behave. I\u2019ll consider\nyour application until we get there.\u201d Blinker took pains to provide against the rejection of his application.\nHe strove to please. To adopt the metaphor of his nonsensical phrase,\nhe laid brick upon brick on the tall chimney of his devoirs until, at\nlength, the structure was stable and complete. The manners of the best\nsociety come around finally to simplicity; and as the girl\u2019s way was\nthat naturally, they were on a mutual plane of communication from the\nbeginning. He learned that she was twenty, and her name was Florence; that she\ntrimmed hats in a millinery shop; that she lived in a furnished room\nwith her best chum Ella, who was cashier in a shoe store; and that a\nglass of milk from the bottle on the window-sill and an egg that boils\nitself while you twist up your hair makes a breakfast good enough for\nany one. Florence laughed when she heard \u201cBlinker.\u201d \u201cWell,\u201d she said. \u201cIt certainly shows that you have imagination. It\ngives the \u2018Smiths\u2019 a chance for a little rest, anyhow.\u201d", "words": 308}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "They landed at Coney, and were dashed on the crest of a great human\nwave of mad pleasure-seekers into the walks and avenues of Fairyland\ngone into vaudeville. With a curious eye, a critical mind and a fairly withheld judgment\nBlinker considered the temples, pagodas and kiosks of popularized\ndelights. Hoi polloi trampled, hustled and crowded him. Basket parties\nbumped him; sticky children tumbled, howling, under his feet, candying\nhis clothes. Insolent youths strolling among the booths with hard-won\ncanes under one arm and easily won girls on the other, blew defiant\nsmoke from cheap cigars into his face. The publicity gentlemen with\nmegaphones, each before his own stupendous attraction, roared like\nNiagara in his ears. Music of all kinds that could be tortured from\nbrass, reed, hide or string, fought in the air to gain space for its\nvibrations against its competitors. But what held Blinker in awful\nfascination was the mob, the multitude, the proletariat shrieking,\nstruggling, hurrying, panting, hurling itself in incontinent frenzy,\nwith unabashed abandon, into the ridiculous sham palaces of trumpery\nand tinsel pleasures. The vulgarity of it, its brutal overriding of all\nthe tenets of repression and taste that were held by his caste,\nrepelled him strongly. In the midst of his disgust he turned and looked down at Florence by\nhis side. She was ready with her quick smile and upturned, happy eyes,\nas bright and clear as the water in trout pools. The eyes were saying\nthat they had the right to be shining and happy, for was their owner\nnot with her (for the present) Man, her Gentleman Friend and holder of\nthe keys to the enchanted city of fun? Blinker did not read her look accurately, but by some miracle he\nsuddenly saw Coney aright.", "words": 295}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He no longer saw a mass of vulgarians seeking gross joys. He now looked\nclearly upon a hundred thousand true idealists. Their offenses were\nwiped out. Counterfeit and false though the garish joys of these\nspangled temples were, he perceived that deep under the gilt surface\nthey offered saving and apposite balm and satisfaction to the restless\nhuman heart. Here, at least, was the husk of Romance, the empty but\nshining casque of Chivalry, the breath-catching though safe-guarded dip\nand flight of Adventure, the magic carpet that transports you to the\nrealms of fairyland, though its journey be through but a few poor yards\nof space. He no longer saw a rabble, but his brothers seeking the\nideal. There was no magic of poesy here or of art; but the glamour of\ntheir imagination turned yellow calico into cloth of gold and the\nmegaphones into the silver trumpets of joy\u2019s heralds. Almost humbled, Blinker rolled up the shirt sleeves of his mind and\njoined the idealists. \u201cYou are the lady doctor,\u201d he said to Florence. \u201cHow shall we go about\ndoing this jolly conglomeration of fairy tales, incorporated?\u201d \u201cWe will begin there,\u201d said the Princess, pointing to a fun pagoda on\nthe edge of the sea, \u201cand we will take them all in, one by one.\u201d They caught the eight o\u2019clock returning boat and sat, filled with\npleasant fatigue, against the rail in the bow, listening to the\nItalians\u2019 fiddle and harp. Blinker had thrown off all care. The North\nWoods seemed to him an uninhabitable wilderness. What a fuss he had\nmade over signing his name\u2014pooh! he could sign it a hundred times. And\nher name was as pretty as she was\u2014\u201cFlorence,\u201d he said it to himself a\ngreat many times.", "words": 292}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "As the boat was nearing its pier in the North River a two-funnelled,\ndrab, foreign-looking sea-going steamer was dropping down toward the\nbay. The boat turned its nose in toward its slip. The steamer veered as\nif to seek midstream, and then yawed, seemed to increase its speed and\nstruck the Coney boat on the side near the stern, cutting into it with\na terrifying shock and crash. While the six hundred passengers on the boat were mostly tumbling about\nthe decks in a shrieking panic the captain was shouting at the steamer\nthat it should not back off and leave the rent exposed for the water to\nenter. But the steamer tore its way out like a savage sawfish and\ncleaved its heartless way, full speed ahead. The boat began to sink at its stern, but moved slowly toward the slip.\nThe passengers were a frantic mob, unpleasant to behold. Blinker held Florence tightly until the boat had righted itself. She\nmade no sound or sign of fear. He stood on a camp stool, ripped off the\nslats above his head and pulled down a number of the life preservers.\nHe began to buckle one around Florence. The rotten canvas split and the\nfraudulent granulated cork came pouring out in a stream. Florence\ncaught a handful of it and laughed gleefully. \u201cIt looks like breakfast food,\u201d she said. \u201cTake it off. They\u2019re no\ngood.\u201d She unbuckled it and threw it on the deck. She made Blinker sit down\nand sat by his side and put her hand in his. \u201cWhat\u2019ll you bet we don\u2019t\nreach the pier all right?\u201d she said and began to hum a song.", "words": 278}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And now the captain moved among the passengers and compelled order. The\nboat would undoubtedly make her slip, he said, and ordered the women\nand children to the bow, where they could land first. The boat, very\nlow in the water at the stern, tried gallantly to make his promise\ngood. \u201cFlorence,\u201d said Blinker, as she held him close by an arm and hand, \u201cI\nlove you.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s what they all say,\u201d she replied, lightly. \u201cI am not one of \u2018they all,\u2019\u201d he persisted. \u201cI never knew any one I\ncould love before. I could pass my life with you and be happy every\nday. I am rich. I can make things all right for you.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s what they all say,\u201d said the girl again, weaving the words into\nher little, reckless song. \u201cDon\u2019t say that again,\u201d said Blinker in a tone that made her look at\nhim in frank surprise. \u201cWhy shouldn\u2019t I say it?\u201d she asked calmly. \u201cThey all do.\u201d \u201cWho are \u2018they\u2019?\u201d he asked, jealous for the first time in his\nexistence. \u201cWhy, the fellows I know.\u201d \u201cDo you know so many?\u201d \u201cOh, well, I\u2019m not a wall flower,\u201d she answered with modest\ncomplacency. \u201cWhere do you see these\u2014these men? At your home?\u201d \u201cOf course not. I meet them just as I did you. Sometimes on the boat,\nsometimes in the park, sometimes on the street. I\u2019m a pretty good judge\nof a man. I can tell in a minute if a fellow is one who is likely to\nget fresh.\u201d \u201cWhat do you mean by \u2018fresh?\u2019\u201d \u201cWhy, try to kiss you\u2014me, I mean.\u201d \u201cDo any of them try that?\u201d asked Blinker, clenching his teeth. \u201cSure. All men do. You know that.\u201d \u201cDo you allow them?\u201d \u201cSome. Not many. They won\u2019t take you out anywhere unless you do.\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "She turned her head and looked searchingly at Blinker. Her eyes were as\ninnocent as a child\u2019s. There was a puzzled look in them, as though she\ndid not understand him. \u201cWhat\u2019s wrong about my meeting fellows?\u201d she asked, wonderingly. \u201cEverything,\u201d he answered, almost savagely. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you entertain\nyour company in the house where you live? Is it necessary to pick up\nTom, Dick and Harry on the streets?\u201d She kept her absolutely ingenuous eyes upon his. \u201cIf you could see the\nplace where I live you wouldn\u2019t ask that. I live in Brickdust Row. They\ncall it that because there\u2019s red dust from the bricks crumbling over\neverything. I\u2019ve lived there for more than four years. There\u2019s no place\nto receive company. You can\u2019t have anybody come to your room. What else\nis there to do? A girl has got to meet the men, hasn\u2019t she?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d he said, hoarsely. \u201cA girl has got to meet a\u2014has got to meet the\nmen.\u201d \u201cThe first time one spoke to me on the street,\u201d she continued, \u201cI ran\nhome and cried all night. But you get used to it. I meet a good many\nnice fellows at church. I go on rainy days and stand in the vestibule\nuntil one comes up with an umbrella. I wish there was a parlor, so I\ncould ask you to call, Mr. Blinker\u2014are you really sure it isn\u2019t\n\u2018Smith,\u2019 now?\u201d The boat landed safely. Blinker had a confused impression of walking\nwith the girl through quiet crosstown streets until she stopped at a\ncorner and held out her hand. \u201cI live just one more block over,\u201d she said. \u201cThank you for a very\npleasant afternoon.\u201d Blinker muttered something and plunged northward till he found a cab. A\nbig, gray church loomed slowly at his right. Blinker shook his fist at\nit through the window.", "words": 311}, {"story": 78, "title": "BRICKDUST ROW", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI gave you a thousand dollars last week,\u201d he cried under his breath,\n\u201cand she meets them in your very doors. There is something wrong; there\nis something wrong.\u201d At eleven the next day Blinker signed his name thirty times with a new\npen provided by Lawyer Oldport. \u201cNow let me go to the woods,\u201d he said surlily. \u201cYou are not looking well,\u201d said Lawyer Oldport. \u201cThe trip will do you\ngood. But listen, if you will, to that little matter of business of\nwhich I spoke to you yesterday, and also five years ago. There are some\nbuildings, fifteen in number, of which there are new five-year leases\nto be signed. Your father contemplated a change in the lease\nprovisions, but never made it. He intended that the parlors of these\nhouses should not be sub-let, but that the tenants should be allowed to\nuse them for reception rooms. These houses are in the shopping\ndistrict, and are mainly tenanted by young working girls. As it is they\nare forced to seek companionship outside. This row of red brick\u2014\u201d Blinker interrupted him with a loud, discordant laugh. \u201cBrickdust Row for an even hundred,\u201d he cried. \u201cAnd I own it. Have I\nguessed right?\u201d \u201cThe tenants have some such name for it,\u201d said Lawyer Oldport. Blinker arose and jammed his hat down to his eyes. \u201cDo what you please with it,\u201d he said harshly. \u201cRemodel it, burn it,\nraze it to the ground. But, man, it\u2019s too late I tell you. It\u2019s too\nlate. It\u2019s too late. It\u2019s too late.\u201d", "words": 260}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Besides many other things, Raggles was a poet. He was called a tramp;\nbut that was only an elliptical way of saying that he was a\nphilosopher, an artist, a traveller, a naturalist and a discoverer. But\nmost of all he was a poet. In all his life he never wrote a line of\nverse; he lived his poetry. His Odyssey would have been a Limerick, had\nit been written. But, to linger with the primary proposition, Raggles\nwas a poet. Raggles\u2019s specialty, had he been driven to ink and paper, would have\nbeen sonnets to the cities. He studied cities as women study their\nreflections in mirrors; as children study the glue and sawdust of a\ndislocated doll; as the men who write about wild animals study the\ncages in the zoo. A city to Raggles was not merely a pile of bricks and\nmortar, peopled by a certain number of inhabitants; it was a thing with\na soul characteristic and distinct; an individual conglomeration of\nlife, with its own peculiar essence, flavor and feeling. Two thousand\nmiles to the north and south, east and west, Raggles wandered in poetic\nfervor, taking the cities to his breast. He footed it on dusty roads,\nor sped magnificently in freight cars, counting time as of no account.\nAnd when he had found the heart of a city and listened to its secret\nconfession, he strayed on, restless, to another. Fickle Raggles!\u2014but\nperhaps he had not met the civic corporation that could engage and hold\nhis critical fancy. Through the ancient poets we have learned that the cities are feminine.\nSo they were to poet Raggles; and his mind carried a concrete and clear\nconception of the figure that symbolized and typified each one that he\nhad wooed.", "words": 296}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Chicago seemed to swoop down upon him with a breezy suggestion of Mrs.\nPartington, plumes and patchouli, and to disturb his rest with a\nsoaring and beautiful song of future promise. But Raggles would awake\nto a sense of shivering cold and a haunting impression of ideals lost\nin a depressing aura of potato salad and fish. Thus Chicago affected him. Perhaps there is a vagueness and inaccuracy\nin the description; but that is Raggles\u2019s fault. He should have\nrecorded his sensations in magazine poems. Pittsburg impressed him as the play of \u201cOthello\u201d performed in the\nRussian language in a railroad station by Dockstader\u2019s minstrels. A\nroyal and generous lady this Pittsburg, though\u2014homely, hearty, with\nflushed face, washing the dishes in a silk dress and white kid\nslippers, and bidding Raggles sit before the roaring fireplace and\ndrink champagne with his pigs\u2019 feet and fried potatoes. New Orleans had simply gazed down upon him from a balcony. He could see\nher pensive, starry eyes and catch the flutter of her fan, and that was\nall. Only once he came face to face with her. It was at dawn, when she\nwas flushing the red bricks of the banquette with a pail of water. She\nlaughed and hummed a chansonette and filled Raggles\u2019s shoes with\nice-cold water. Allons! Boston construed herself to the poetic Raggles in an erratic and\nsingular way. It seemed to him that he had drunk cold tea and that the\ncity was a white, cold cloth that had been bound tightly around his\nbrow to spur him to some unknown but tremendous mental effort. And,\nafter all, he came to shovel snow for a livelihood; and the cloth,\nbecoming wet, tightened its knots and could not be removed. Indefinite and unintelligible ideas, you will say; but your\ndisapprobation should be tempered with gratitude, for these are poets\u2019\nfancies\u2014and suppose you had come upon them in verse!", "words": 319}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One day Raggles came and laid siege to the heart of the great city of\nManhattan. She was the greatest of all; and he wanted to learn her note\nin the scale; to taste and appraise and classify and solve and label\nher and arrange her with the other cities that had given him up the\nsecret of their individuality. And here we cease to be Raggles\u2019s\ntranslator and become his chronicler. Raggles landed from a ferry-boat one morning and walked into the core\nof the town with the blas\u00e9 air of a cosmopolite. He was dressed with\ncare to play the r\u00f4le of an \u201cunidentified man.\u201d No country, race,\nclass, clique, union, party clan or bowling association could have\nclaimed him. His clothing, which had been donated to him piece-meal by\ncitizens of different height, but same number of inches around the\nheart, was not yet as uncomfortable to his figure as those specimens of\nraiment, self-measured, that are railroaded to you by transcontinental\ntailors with a suit case, suspenders, silk handkerchief and pearl studs\nas a bonus. Without money\u2014as a poet should be\u2014but with the ardor of an\nastronomer discovering a new star in the chorus of the milky way, or a\nman who has seen ink suddenly flow from his fountain pen, Raggles\nwandered into the great city. Late in the afternoon he drew out of the roar and commotion with a look\nof dumb terror on his countenance. He was defeated, puzzled,\ndiscomfited, frightened. Other cities had been to him as long primer to\nread; as country maidens quickly to fathom; as\nsend-price-of-subscription-with-answer rebuses to solve; as oyster\ncocktails to swallow; but here was one as cold, glittering, serene,\nimpossible as a four-carat diamond in a window to a lover outside\nfingering damply in his pocket his ribbon-counter salary.", "words": 303}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The greetings of the other cities he had known\u2014their homespun\nkindliness, their human gamut of rough charity, friendly curses,\ngarrulous curiosity and easily estimated credulity or indifference.\nThis city of Manhattan gave him no clue; it was walled against him.\nLike a river of adamant it flowed past him in the streets. Never an eye\nwas turned upon him; no voice spoke to him. His heart yearned for the\nclap of Pittsburg\u2019s sooty hand on his shoulder; for Chicago\u2019s menacing\nbut social yawp in his ear; for the pale and eleemosynary stare through\nthe Bostonian eyeglass\u2014even for the precipitate but unmalicious\nboot-toe of Louisville or St. Louis. On Broadway Raggles, successful suitor of many cities, stood, bashful,\nlike any country swain. For the first time he experienced the poignant\nhumiliation of being ignored. And when he tried to reduce this\nbrilliant, swiftly changing, ice-cold city to a formula he failed\nutterly. Poet though he was, it offered him no color similes, no points\nof comparison, no flaw in its polished facets, no handle by which he\ncould hold it up and view its shape and structure, as he familiarly and\noften contemptuously had done with other towns. The houses were\ninterminable ramparts loopholed for defense; the people were bright but\nbloodless spectres passing in sinister and selfish array.", "words": 218}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The thing that weighed heaviest on Raggles\u2019s soul and clogged his\npoet\u2019s fancy was the spirit of absolute egotism that seemed to saturate\nthe people as toys are saturated with paint. Each one that he\nconsidered appeared a monster of abominable and insolent conceit.\nHumanity was gone from them; they were toddling idols of stone and\nvarnish, worshipping themselves and greedy for though oblivious of\nworship from their fellow graven images. Frozen, cruel, implacable,\nimpervious, cut to an identical pattern, they hurried on their ways\nlike statues brought by some miracles to motion, while soul and feeling\nlay unaroused in the reluctant marble. Gradually Raggles became conscious of certain types. One was an elderly\ngentleman with a snow-white, short beard, pink, unwrinkled face and\nstony, sharp blue eyes, attired in the fashion of a gilded youth, who\nseemed to personify the city\u2019s wealth, ripeness and frigid unconcern.\nAnother type was a woman, tall, beautiful, clear as a steel engraving,\ngoddess-like, calm, clothed like the princesses of old, with eyes as\ncoldly blue as the reflection of sunlight on a glacier. And another was\na by-product of this town of marionettes\u2014a broad, swaggering, grim,\nthreateningly sedate fellow, with a jowl as large as a harvested wheat\nfield, the complexion of a baptized infant and the knuckles of a\nprize-fighter. This type leaned against cigar signs and viewed the\nworld with frapp\u00e9d contumely. A poet is a sensitive creature, and Raggles soon shrivelled in the\nbleak embrace of the undecipherable. The chill, sphinx-like, ironical,\nillegible, unnatural, ruthless expression of the city left him downcast\nand bewildered. Had it no heart? Better the woodpile, the scolding of\nvinegar-faced housewives at back doors, the kindly spleen of bartenders\nbehind provincial free-lunch counters, the amiable truculence of rural\nconstables, the kicks, arrests and happy-go-lucky chances of the other\nvulgar, loud, crude cities than this freezing heartlessness.", "words": 311}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Raggles summoned his courage and sought alms from the populace.\nUnheeding, regardless, they passed on without the wink of an eyelash to\ntestify that they were conscious of his existence. And then he said to\nhimself that this fair but pitiless city of Manhattan was without a\nsoul; that its inhabitants were manikins moved by wires and springs,\nand that he was alone in a great wilderness. Raggles started to cross the street. There was a blast, a roar, a\nhissing and a crash as something struck him and hurled him over and\nover six yards from where he had been. As he was coming down like the\nstick of a rocket the earth and all the cities thereof turned to a\nfractured dream. Raggles opened his eyes. First an odor made itself known to him\u2014an odor\nof the earliest spring flowers of Paradise. And then a hand soft as a\nfalling petal touched his brow. Bending over him was the woman clothed\nlike the princess of old, with blue eyes, now soft and humid with human\nsympathy. Under his head on the pavement were silks and furs. With\nRaggles\u2019s hat in his hand and with his face pinker than ever from a\nvehement burst of oratory against reckless driving, stood the elderly\ngentleman who personified the city\u2019s wealth and ripeness. From a nearby\ncaf\u00e9 hurried the by-product with the vast jowl and baby complexion,\nbearing a glass full of a crimson fluid that suggested delightful\npossibilities. \u201cDrink dis, sport,\u201d said the by-product, holding the glass to Raggles\u2019s\nlips.", "words": 259}, {"story": 79, "title": "THE MAKING OF A NEW YORKER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Hundreds of people huddled around in a moment, their faces wearing the\ndeepest concern. Two flattering and gorgeous policemen got into the\ncircle and pressed back the overplus of Samaritans. An old lady in a\nblack shawl spoke loudly of camphor; a newsboy slipped one of his\npapers beneath Raggles\u2019s elbow, where it lay on the muddy pavement. A\nbrisk young man with a notebook was asking for names. A bell clanged importantly, and the ambulance cleaned a lane through\nthe crowd. A cool surgeon slipped into the midst of affairs. \u201cHow do you feel, old man?\u201d asked the surgeon, stooping easily to his\ntask. The princess of silks and satins wiped a red drop or two from\nRaggles\u2019s brow with a fragrant cobweb. \u201cMe?\u201d said Raggles, with a seraphic smile, \u201cI feel fine.\u201d He had found the heart of his new city. In three days they let him leave his cot for the convalescent ward in\nthe hospital. He had been in there an hour when the attendants heard\nsounds of conflict. Upon investigation they found that Raggles had\nassaulted and damaged a brother convalescent\u2014a glowering transient whom\na freight train collision had sent in to be patched up. \u201cWhat\u2019s all this about?\u201d inquired the head nurse. \u201cHe was runnin\u2019 down me town,\u201d said Raggles. \u201cWhat town?\u201d asked the nurse. \u201cNoo York,\u201d said Raggles.", "words": 225}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "When \u201cKid\u201d Brady was sent to the ropes by Molly McKeever\u2019s blue-black\neyes he withdrew from the Stovepipe Gang. So much for the power of a\ncolleen\u2019s blanderin\u2019 tongue and stubborn true-heartedness. If you are a\nman who read this, may such an influence be sent you before 2 o\u2019clock\nto-morrow; if you are a woman, may your Pomeranian greet you this\nmorning with a cold nose\u2014a sign of doghealth and your happiness. The Stovepipe Gang borrowed its name from a sub-district of the city\ncalled the \u201cStovepipe,\u201d which is a narrow and natural extension of the\nfamiliar district known as \u201cHell\u2019s Kitchen.\u201d The \u201cStovepipe\u201d strip of\ntown runs along Eleventh and Twelfth avenues on the river, and bends a\nhard and sooty elbow around little, lost homeless DeWitt Clinton park.\nConsider that a stovepipe is an important factor in any kitchen and the\nsituation is analyzed. The chefs in \u201cHell\u2019s Kitchen\u201d are many, and the\n\u201cStovepipe\u201d gang, wears the cordon blue. The members of this unchartered but widely known brotherhood appeared\nto pass their time on street corners arrayed like the lilies of the\nconservatory and busy with nail files and penknives. Thus displayed as\na guarantee of good faith, they carried on an innocuous conversation in\na 200-word vocabulary, to the casual observer as innocent and\nimmaterial as that heard in clubs seven blocks to the east. But off exhibition the \u201cStovepipes\u201d were not mere street corner\nornaments addicted to posing and manicuring. Their serious occupation\nwas the separating of citizens from their coin and valuables.\nPreferably this was done by weird and singular tricks without noise or\nbloodshed; but whenever the citizen honored by their attentions refused\nto impoverish himself gracefully his objections came to be spread\nfinally upon some police station blotter or hospital register.", "words": 299}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The police held the \u201cStovepipe\u201d gang in perpetual suspicion and\nrespect. As the nightingale\u2019s liquid note is heard in the deepest\nshadows, so along the \u201cStovepipe\u2019s\u201d dark and narrow confines the\nwhistle for reserves punctures the dull ear of night. Whenever there\nwas smoke in the \u201cstovepipe\u201d the tasselled men in blue knew there was\nfire in \u201cHell\u2019s Kitchen.\u201d \u201cKid\u201d Brady promised Molly to be good. \u201cKid\u201d was the vainest, the\nstrongest, the wariest and the most successful plotter in the gang.\nTherefore, the boys were sorry to give him up. But they witnessed his fall to a virtuous life without protest. For, in\nthe Kitchen it is considered neither unmanly nor improper for a guy to\ndo as his girl advises. Black her eye for love\u2019s sake, if you will; but it is all-to-the-good\nbusiness to do a thing when she wants you to do it. \u201cTurn off the hydrant,\u201d said the Kid, one night when Molly, tearful,\nbesought him to amend his ways. \u201cI\u2019m going to cut out the gang. You for\nmine, and the simple life on the side. I\u2019ll tell you, Moll\u2014I\u2019ll get\nwork; and in a year we\u2019ll get married. I\u2019ll do it for you. We\u2019ll get a\nflat and a flute, and a sewing machine and a rubber plant and live as\nhonest as we can.\u201d \u201cOh, Kid,\u201d sighed Molly, wiping the powder off his shoulder with her\nhandkerchief, \u201cI\u2019d rather hear you say that than to own all of New\nYork. And we can be happy on so little!\u201d The Kid looked down at his speckless cuffs and shining patent leathers\nwith a suspicion of melancholy.", "words": 273}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt\u2019ll hurt hardest in the rags department,\u201d said he. \u201cI\u2019ve kind of\nalways liked to rig out swell when I could. You know how I hate cheap\nthings, Moll. This suit set me back sixty-five. Anything in the wearing\napparel line has got to be just so, or it\u2019s to the misfit parlors for\nit, for mine. If I work I won\u2019t have so much coin to hand over to the\nlittle man with the big shears.\u201d \u201cNever mind, Kid. I\u2019ll like you just as much in a blue jumper as I\nwould in a red automobile.\u201d Before the Kid had grown large enough to knock out his father he had\nbeen compelled to learn the plumber\u2019s art. So now back to this\nhonorable and useful profession he returned. But it was as an assistant\nthat he engaged himself; and it is the master plumber and not the\nassistant, who wears diamonds as large as hailstones and looks\ncontemptuously upon the marble colonnades of Senator Clark\u2019s mansion. Eight months went by as smoothly and surely as though they had\n\u201celapsed\u201d on a theater program. The Kid worked away at his pipes and\nsolder with no symptoms of backsliding. The Stovepipe gang continued\nits piracy on the high avenues, cracked policemen\u2019s heads, held up late\ntravelers, invented new methods of peaceful plundering, copied Fifth\navenue\u2019s cut of clothes and neckwear fancies and comported itself\naccording to its lawless bylaws. But the Kid stood firm and faithful to\nhis Molly, even though the polish was gone from his fingernails and it\ntook him 15 minutes to tie his purple silk ascot so that the worn\nplaces would not show. One evening he brought a mysterious bundle with him to Molly\u2019s house. \u201cOpen that, Moll!\u201d he said in his large, quiet way. \u201cIt\u2019s for you.\u201d", "words": 302}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Molly\u2019s eager fingers tore off the wrappings. She shrieked aloud, and\nin rushed a sprinkling of little McKeevers, and Ma McKeever, dishwashy,\nbut an undeniable relative of the late Mrs. Eve. Again Molly shrieked, and something dark and long and sinuous flew and\nenveloped her neck like an anaconda. \u201cRussian sables,\u201d said the Kid, pridefully, enjoying the sight of\nMolly\u2019s round cheek against the clinging fur. \u201cThe real thing. They\ndon\u2019t grow anything in Russia too good for you, Moll.\u201d Molly plunged her hands into the muff, overturned a row of the family\ninfants and flew to the mirror. Hint for the beauty column. To make\nbright eyes, rosy cheeks and a bewitching smile: Recipe\u2014one set Russian\nsables. Apply. When they were alone Molly became aware of a small cake of the ice of\ncommon sense floating down the full tide of her happiness. \u201cYou\u2019re a bird, all right, Kid,\u201d she admitted gratefully. \u201cI never had\nany furs on before in my life. But ain\u2019t Russian sables awful\nexpensive? Seems to me I\u2019ve heard they were.\u201d \u201cHave I ever chucked any bargain-sale stuff at you, Moll?\u201d asked the\nKid, with calm dignity. \u201cDid you ever notice me leaning on the remnant\ncounter or peering in the window of the five-and-ten? Call that scarf\n$250 and the muff $175 and you won\u2019t make any mistake about the price\nof Russian sables. The swell goods for me. Say, they look fine on you,\nMoll.\u201d Molly hugged the sables to her bosom in rapture. And then her smile\nwent away little by little, and she looked the Kid straight in the eye\nsadly and steadily. He knew what every look of hers meant; and he laughed with a faint\nflush upon his face. \u201cCut it out,\u201d he said, with affectionate roughness. \u201cI told you I was\ndone with that. I bought \u2019em and paid for \u2019em, all right, with my own\nmoney.\u201d", "words": 319}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOut of the money you worked for, Kid? Out of $75 a month?\u201d \u201cSure. I been saving up.\u201d \u201cLet\u2019s see\u2014saved $425 in eight months, Kid?\u201d \u201cAh, let up,\u201d said the Kid, with some heat. \u201cI had some money when I\nwent to work. Do you think I\u2019ve been holding \u2019em up again? I told you\nI\u2019d quit. They\u2019re paid for on the square. Put \u2019em on and come out for a\nwalk.\u201d Molly calmed her doubts. Sables are soothing. Proud as a queen she went\nforth in the streets at the Kid\u2019s side. In all that region of low-lying\nstreets Russian sables had never been seen before. The word sped, and\ndoors and windows blossomed with heads eager to see the swell furs Kid\nBrady had given his girl. All down the street there were \u201cOh\u2019s\u201d and\n\u201cAh\u2019s\u201d and the reported fabulous sum paid for the sables was passed\nfrom lip to lip, increasing as it went. At her right elbow sauntered\nthe Kid with the air of princes. Work had not diminished his love of\npomp and show and his passion for the costly and genuine. On a corner\nthey saw a group of the Stovepipe Gang loafing, immaculate. They raised\ntheir hats to the Kid\u2019s girl and went on with their calm, unaccented\npalaver. Three blocks behind the admired couple strolled Detective Ransom, of\nthe Central office. Ransom was the only detective on the force who\ncould walk abroad with safety in the Stovepipe district. He was fair\ndealing and unafraid and went there with the hypothesis that the\ninhabitants were human. Many liked him, and now and then one would tip\noff to him something that he was looking for. \u201cWhat\u2019s the excitement down the street?\u201d asked Ransom of a pale youth\nin a red sweater.", "words": 299}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cDey\u2019re out rubberin\u2019 at a set of buffalo robes Kid Brady staked his\ngirl to,\u201d answered the youth. \u201cSome say he paid $900 for de skins.\nDey\u2019re swell all right enough.\u201d \u201cI hear Brady has been working at his old trade for nearly a year,\u201d\nsaid the detective. \u201cHe doesn\u2019t travel with the gang any more, does\nhe?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s workin\u2019, all right,\u201d said the red sweater, \u201cbut\u2014say, sport, are\nyou trailin\u2019 anything in the fur line? A job in a plumbin\u2019 shop don\u2019\nmatch wid dem skins de Kid\u2019s girl\u2019s got on.\u201d Ransom overtook the strolling couple on an empty street near the river\nbank. He touched the Kid\u2019s arm from behind. \u201cLet me see you a moment, Brady,\u201d he said, quietly. His eye rested for\na second on the long fur scarf thrown stylishly back over Molly\u2019s left\nshoulder. The Kid, with his old-time police hating frown on his face,\nstepped a yard or two aside with the detective. \u201cDid you go to Mrs. Hethcote\u2019s on West 7\u2014th street yesterday to fix a\nleaky water pipe?\u201d asked Ransom. \u201cI did,\u201d said the Kid. \u201cWhat of it?\u201d \u201cThe lady\u2019s $1,000 set of Russian sables went out of the house about\nthe same time you did. The description fits the ones this lady has on.\u201d \u201cTo h\u2014Harlem with you,\u201d cried the Kid, angrily. \u201cYou know I\u2019ve cut out\nthat sort of thing, Ransom. I bought them sables yesterday at\u2014\u201d The Kid stopped short. \u201cI know you\u2019ve been working straight lately,\u201d said Ransom. \u201cI\u2019ll give\nyou every chance. I\u2019ll go with you where you say you bought the furs\nand investigate. The lady can wear \u2019em along with us and nobody\u2019ll be\non. That\u2019s fair, Brady.\u201d \u201cCome on,\u201d agreed the Kid, hotly. And then he stopped suddenly in his\ntracks and looked with an odd smile at Molly\u2019s distressed and anxious\nface.", "words": 310}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNo use,\u201d he said, grimly. \u201cThey\u2019re the Hethcote sables, all right.\nYou\u2019ll have to turn \u2019em over, Moll, but they ain\u2019t too good for you if\nthey cost a million.\u201d Molly, with anguish in her face, hung upon the Kid\u2019s arm. \u201cOh, Kiddy, you\u2019ve broke my heart,\u201d she said. \u201cI was so proud of\nyou\u2014and now they\u2019ll do you\u2014and where\u2019s our happiness gone?\u201d \u201cGo home,\u201d said the Kid, wildly. \u201cCome on, Ransom\u2014take the furs. Let\u2019s\nget away from here. Wait a minute\u2014I\u2019ve a good mind to\u2014no, I\u2019ll be d\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013\nif I can do it\u2014run along, Moll\u2014I\u2019m ready, Ransom.\u201d Around the corner of a lumber-yard came Policeman Kohen on his way to\nhis beat along the river. The detective signed to him for assistance.\nKohen joined the group. Ransom explained. \u201cSure,\u201d said Kohen. \u201cI hear about those saples dat vas stole. You say\nyou have dem here?\u201d Policeman Kohen took the end of Molly\u2019s late scarf in his hands and\nlooked at it closely. \u201cOnce,\u201d he said, \u201cI sold furs in Sixth avenue. Yes, dese are saples.\nDey come from Alaska. Dis scarf is vort $12 and dis muff\u2014\u201d \u201cBiff!\u201d came the palm of the Kid\u2019s powerful hand upon the policeman\u2019s\nmouth. Kohen staggered and rallied. Molly screamed. The detective threw\nhimself upon Brady and with Kohen\u2019s aid got the nippers on his wrist. \u201cThe scarf is vort $12 and the muff is vort $9,\u201d persisted the\npoliceman. \u201cVot is dis talk about $1,000 saples?\u201d The Kid sat upon a pile of lumber and his face turned dark red. \u201cCorrect, Solomonski!\u201d he declared, viciously. \u201cI paid $21.50 for the\nset. I\u2019d rather have got six months and not have told it. Me, the swell\nguy that wouldn\u2019t look at anything cheap! I\u2019m a plain bluffer. Moll\u2014my\nsalary couldn\u2019t spell sables in Russian.\u201d Molly cast herself upon his neck.", "words": 307}, {"story": 80, "title": "VANITY AND SOME SABLES", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhat do I care for all the sables and money in the world,\u201d she cried.\n\u201cIt\u2019s my Kiddy I want. Oh, you dear, stuck-up, crazy blockhead!\u201d \u201cYou can take dose nippers off,\u201d said Kohen to the detective. \u201cBefore I\nleaf de station de report come in dat de lady vind her saples\u2014hanging\nin her wardrobe. Young man, I excuse you dat punch in my vace\u2014dis von\ntime.\u201d Ransom handed Molly her furs. Her eyes were smiling upon the Kid. She\nwound the scarf and threw the end over her left shoulder with a\nduchess\u2019 grace. \u201cA gouple of young vools,\u201d said Policeman Kohen to Ransom; \u201ccome on\naway.\u201d", "words": 108}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the stroke of six Ikey Snigglefritz laid down his goose. Ikey was a\ntailor\u2019s apprentice. Are there tailor\u2019s apprentices nowadays? At any rate, Ikey toiled and snipped and basted and pressed and patched\nand sponged all day in the steamy fetor of a tailor-shop. But when work\nwas done Ikey hitched his wagon to such stars as his firmament let\nshine. It was Saturday night, and the boss laid twelve begrimed and begrudged\ndollars in his hand. Ikey dabbled discreetly in water, donned coat, hat\nand collar with its frazzled tie and chalcedony pin, and set forth in\npursuit of his ideals. For each of us, when our day\u2019s work is done, must seek our ideal,\nwhether it be love or pinochle or lobster \u00e0 la Newburg, or the sweet\nsilence of the musty bookshelves. Behold Ikey as he ambles up the street beneath the roaring \u201cEl\u201d between\nthe rows of reeking sweat-shops. Pallid, stooping, insignificant,\nsqualid, doomed to exist forever in penury of body and mind, yet, as he\nswings his cheap cane and projects the noisome inhalations from his\ncigarette you perceive that he nurtures in his narrow bosom the\nbacillus of society. Ikey\u2019s legs carried him to and into that famous place of entertainment\nknown as the Caf\u00e9 Maginnis\u2014famous because it was the rendezvous of\nBilly McMahan, the greatest man, the most wonderful man, Ikey thought,\nthat the world had ever produced. Billy McMahan was the district leader. Upon him the Tiger purred, and\nhis hand held manna to scatter. Now, as Ikey entered, McMahan stood,\nflushed and triumphant and mighty, the centre of a huzzaing concourse\nof his lieutenants and constituents. It seems there had been an\nelection; a signal victory had been won; the city had been swept back\ninto line by a resistless besom of ballots. Ikey slunk along the bar and gazed, breath-quickened, at his idol.", "words": 314}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "How magnificent was Billy McMahan, with his great, smooth, laughing\nface; his gray eye, shrewd as a chicken hawk\u2019s; his diamond ring, his\nvoice like a bugle call, his prince\u2019s air, his plump and active roll of\nmoney, his clarion call to friend and comrade\u2014oh, what a king of men he\nwas! How he obscured his lieutenants, though they themselves loomed\nlarge and serious, blue of chin and important of mien, with hands\nburied deep in the pockets of their short overcoats! But Billy\u2014oh, what\nsmall avail are words to paint for you his glory as seen by Ikey\nSnigglefritz! The Caf\u00e9 Maginnis rang to the note of victory. The white-coated\nbartenders threw themselves featfully upon bottle, cork and glass. From\na score of clear Havanas the air received its paradox of clouds. The\nleal and the hopeful shook Billy McMahan\u2019s hand. And there was born\nsuddenly in the worshipful soul of Ikey Snigglefritz an audacious,\nthrilling impulse. He stepped forward into the little cleared space in which majesty\nmoved, and held out his hand. Billy McMahan grasped it unhesitatingly, shook it and smiled. Made mad now by the gods who were about to destroy him, Ikey threw away\nhis scabbard and charged upon Olympus. \u201cHave a drink with me, Billy,\u201d he said familiarly, \u201cyou and your\nfriends?\u201d \u201cDon\u2019t mind if I do, old man,\u201d said the great leader, \u201cjust to keep the\nball rolling.\u201d The last spark of Ikey\u2019s reason fled. \u201cWine,\u201d he called to the bartender, waving a trembling hand. The corks of three bottles were drawn; the champagne bubbled in the\nlong row of glasses set upon the bar. Billy McMahan took his and\nnodded, with his beaming smile, at Ikey. The lieutenants and satellites\ntook theirs and growled \u201cHere\u2019s to you.\u201d Ikey took his nectar in\ndelirium. All drank. Ikey threw his week\u2019s wages in a crumpled roll upon the bar.", "words": 315}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cC\u2019rect,\u201d said the bartender, smoothing the twelve one-dollar notes.\nThe crowd surged around Billy McMahan again. Some one was telling how\nBrannigan fixed \u2019em over in the Eleventh. Ikey leaned against the bar a\nwhile, and then went out. He went down Hester street and up Chrystie, and down Delancey to where\nhe lived. And there his women folk, a bibulous mother and three dingy\nsisters, pounced upon him for his wages. And at his confession they\nshrieked and objurgated him in the pithy rhetoric of the locality. But even as they plucked at him and struck him Ikey remained in his\necstatic trance of joy. His head was in the clouds; the star was\ndrawing his wagon. Compared with what he had achieved the loss of wages\nand the bray of women\u2019s tongues were slight affairs. He had shaken the hand of Billy McMahan. Billy McMahan had a wife, and upon her visiting cards was engraved the\nname \u201cMrs. William Darragh McMahan.\u201d And there was a certain vexation\nattendant upon these cards; for, small as they were, there were houses\nin which they could not be inserted. Billy McMahan was a dictator in\npolitics, a four-walled tower in business, a mogul, dreaded, loved and\nobeyed among his own people. He was growing rich; the daily papers had\na dozen men on his trail to chronicle his every word of wisdom; he had\nbeen honored in caricature holding the Tiger cringing in leash.", "words": 243}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But the heart of Billy was sometimes sore within him. There was a race\nof men from which he stood apart but that he viewed with the eye of\nMoses looking over into the promised land. He, too, had ideals, even as\nhad Ikey Snigglefritz; and sometimes, hopeless of attaining them, his\nown solid success was as dust and ashes in his mouth. And Mrs. William\nDarragh McMahan wore a look of discontent upon her plump but pretty\nface, and the very rustle of her silks seemed a sigh. There was a brave and conspicuous assemblage in the dining saloon of a\nnoted hostelry where Fashion loves to display her charms. At one table\nsat Billy McMahan and his wife. Mostly silent they were, but the\naccessories they enjoyed little needed the indorsement of speech. Mrs.\nMcMahan\u2019s diamonds were outshone by few in the room. The waiter bore\nthe costliest brands of wine to their table. In evening dress, with an\nexpression of gloom upon his smooth and massive countenance, you would\nlook in vain for a more striking figure than Billy\u2019s. Four tables away sat alone a tall, slender man, about thirty, with\nthoughtful, melancholy eyes, a Van Dyke beard and peculiarly white,\nthin hands. He was dining on filet mignon, dry toast and apollinaris.\nThat man was Cortlandt Van Duyckink, a man worth eighty millions, who\ninherited and held a sacred seat in the exclusive inner circle of\nsociety. Billy McMahan spoke to no one around him, because he knew no one. Van\nDuyckink kept his eyes on his plate because he knew that every one\npresent was hungry to catch his. He could bestow knighthood and\nprestige by a nod, and he was chary of creating a too extensive\nnobility.", "words": 293}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "And then Billy McMahan conceived and accomplished the most startling\nand audacious act of his life. He rose deliberately and walked over to\nCortlandt Van Duyckink\u2019s table and held out his hand. \u201cSay, Mr. Van Duyckink,\u201d he said, \u201cI\u2019ve heard you was talking about\nstarting some reforms among the poor people down in my district. I\u2019m\nMcMahan, you know. Say, now, if that\u2019s straight I\u2019ll do all I can to\nhelp you. And what I says goes in that neck of the woods, don\u2019t it? Oh,\nsay, I rather guess it does.\u201d Van Duyckink\u2019s rather sombre eyes lighted up. He rose to his lank\nheight and grasped Billy McMahan\u2019s hand. \u201cThank you, Mr. McMahan,\u201d he said, in his deep, serious tones. \u201cI have\nbeen thinking of doing some work of that sort. I shall be glad of your\nassistance. It pleases me to have become acquainted with you.\u201d Billy walked back to his seat. His shoulder was tingling from the\naccolade bestowed by royalty. A hundred eyes were now turned upon him\nin envy and new admiration. Mrs. William Darragh McMahan trembled with\necstasy, so that her diamonds smote the eye almost with pain. And now\nit was apparent that at many tables there were those who suddenly\nremembered that they enjoyed Mr. McMahan\u2019s acquaintance. He saw smiles\nand bows about him. He became enveloped in the aura of dizzy greatness.\nHis campaign coolness deserted him. \u201cWine for that gang!\u201d he commanded the waiter, pointing with his\nfinger. \u201cWine over there. Wine to those three gents by that green bush.\nTell \u2019em it\u2019s on me. D\u2013\u2013\u2013\u2013n it! Wine for everybody!\u201d The waiter ventured to whisper that it was perhaps inexpedient to carry\nout the order, in consideration of the dignity of the house and its\ncustom.", "words": 296}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cAll right,\u201d said Billy, \u201cif it\u2019s against the rules. I wonder if\n\u2019twould do to send my friend Van Duyckink a bottle? No? Well, it\u2019ll\nflow all right at the caffy to-night, just the same. It\u2019ll be rubber\nboots for anybody who comes in there any time up to 2 A. M.\u201d Billy McMahan was happy. He had shaken the hand of Cortlandt Van Duyckink. The big pale-gray auto with its shining metal work looked out of place\nmoving slowly among the push carts and trash-heaps on the lower east\nside. So did Cortlandt Van Duyckink, with his aristocratic face and\nwhite, thin hands, as he steered carefully between the groups of\nragged, scurrying youngsters in the streets. And so did Miss Constance\nSchuyler, with her dim, ascetic beauty, seated at his side. \u201cOh, Cortlandt,\u201d she breathed, \u201cisn\u2019t it sad that human beings have to\nlive in such wretchedness and poverty? And you\u2014how noble it is of you\nto think of them, to give your time and money to improve their\ncondition!\u201d Van Duyckink turned his solemn eyes upon her. \u201cIt is little,\u201d he said, sadly, \u201cthat I can do. The question is a large\none, and belongs to society. But even individual effort is not thrown\naway. Look, Constance! On this street I have arranged to build soup\nkitchens, where no one who is hungry will be turned away. And down this\nother street are the old buildings that I shall cause to be torn down\nand there erect others in place of those death-traps of fire and\ndisease.\u201d Down Delancey slowly crept the pale-gray auto. Away from it toddled\ncoveys of wondering, tangle-haired, barefooted, unwashed children. It\nstopped before a crazy brick structure, foul and awry.", "words": 288}, {"story": 81, "title": "THE SOCIAL TRIANGLE", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Van Duyckink alighted to examine at a better perspective one of the\nleaning walls. Down the steps of the building came a young man who\nseemed to epitomize its degradation, squalor and infelicity\u2014a\nnarrow-chested, pale, unsavory young man, puffing at a cigarette. Obeying a sudden impulse, Van Duyckink stepped out and warmly grasped\nthe hand of what seemed to him a living rebuke. \u201cI want to know you people,\u201d he said, sincerely. \u201cI am going to help\nyou as much as I can. We shall be friends.\u201d As the auto crept carefully away Cortlandt Van Duyckink felt an\nunaccustomed glow about his heart. He was near to being a happy man. He had shaken the hand of Ikey Snigglefritz.", "words": 119}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "We are to consider the shade known as purple. It is a color justly in\nrepute among the sons and daughters of man. Emperors claim it for their\nespecial dye. Good fellows everywhere seek to bring their noses to the\ngenial hue that follows the commingling of the red and blue. We say of\nprinces that they are born to the purple; and no doubt they are, for\nthe colic tinges their faces with the royal tint equally with the\nsnub-nosed countenance of a woodchopper\u2019s brat. All women love it\u2014when\nit is the fashion. And now purple is being worn. You notice it on the streets. Of course\nother colors are quite stylish as well\u2014in fact, I saw a lovely thing\nthe other day in olive green albatross, with a triple-lapped flounce\nskirt trimmed with insert squares of silk, and a draped fichu of lace\nopening over a shirred vest and double puff sleeves with a lace band\nholding two gathered frills\u2014but you see lots of purple too. Oh, yes,\nyou do; just take a walk down Twenty-third street any afternoon. Therefore Maida\u2014the girl with the big brown eyes and cinnamon-colored\nhair in the Bee-Hive Store\u2014said to Grace\u2014the girl with the rhinestone\nbrooch and peppermint-pepsin flavor to her speech\u2014\u201cI\u2019m going to have a\npurple dress\u2014a tailor-made purple dress\u2014for Thanksgiving.\u201d \u201cOh, are you,\u201d said Grace, putting away some 7\u00bd gloves into the 6\u00be box.\n\u201cWell, it\u2019s me for red. You see more red on Fifth avenue. And the men\nall seem to like it.\u201d \u201cI like purple best,\u201d said Maida. \u201cAnd old Schlegel has promised to\nmake it for $8. It\u2019s going to be lovely. I\u2019m going to have a plaited\nskirt and a blouse coat trimmed with a band of galloon under a white\ncloth collar with two rows of\u2014\u201d \u201cSly boots!\u201d said Grace with an educated wink. \u201c\u2014soutache braid over a surpliced white vest; and a plaited basque\nand\u2014\u201d", "words": 320}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cSly boots\u2014sly boots!\u201d repeated Grace. \u201c\u2014plaited gigot sleeves with a drawn velvet ribbon over an inside cuff.\nWhat do you mean by saying that?\u201d \u201cYou think Mr. Ramsay likes purple. I heard him say yesterday he\nthought some of the dark shades of red were stunning.\u201d \u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d said Maida. \u201cI prefer purple, and them that don\u2019t like\nit can just take the other side of the street.\u201d Which suggests the thought that after all, the followers of purple may\nbe subject to slight delusions. Danger is near when a maiden thinks she\ncan wear purple regardless of complexions and opinions; and when\nEmperors think their purple robes will wear forever. Maida had saved $18 after eight months of economy; and this had bought\nthe goods for the purple dress and paid Schlegel $4 on the making of\nit. On the day before Thanksgiving she would have just enough to pay\nthe remaining $4. And then for a holiday in a new dress\u2014can earth offer\nanything more enchanting? Old Bachman, the proprietor of the Bee-Hive Store, always gave a\nThanksgiving dinner to his employees. On every one of the subsequent\n364 days, excusing Sundays, he would remind them of the joys of the\npast banquet and the hopes of the coming ones, thus inciting them to\nincreased enthusiasm in work. The dinner was given in the store on one\nof the long tables in the middle of the room. They tacked wrapping\npaper over the front windows; and the turkeys and other good things\nwere brought in the back way from the restaurant on the corner. You\nwill perceive that the Bee-Hive was not a fashionable department store,\nwith escalators and pompadours. It was almost small enough to be called\nan emporium; and you could actually go in there and get waited on and\nwalk out again. And always at the Thanksgiving dinners Mr. Ramsay\u2014", "words": 316}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Oh, bother! I should have mentioned Mr. Ramsay first of all. He is more\nimportant than purple or green, or even the red cranberry sauce. Mr. Ramsay was the head clerk; and as far as I am concerned I am for\nhim. He never pinched the girls\u2019 arms when he passed them in dark\ncorners of the store; and when he told them stories when business was\ndull and the girls giggled and said: \u201cOh, pshaw!\u201d it wasn\u2019t G. Bernard\nthey meant at all. Besides being a gentleman, Mr. Ramsay was queer and\noriginal in other ways. He was a health crank, and believed that people\nshould never eat anything that was good for them. He was violently\nopposed to anybody being comfortable, and coming in out of snow storms,\nor wearing overshoes, or taking medicine, or coddling themselves in any\nway. Every one of the ten girls in the store had little\npork-chop-and-fried-onion dreams every night of becoming Mrs. Ramsay.\nFor, next year old Bachman was going to take him in for a partner. And\neach one of them knew that if she should catch him she would knock\nthose cranky health notions of his sky high before the wedding cake\nindigestion was over. Mr. Ramsay was master of ceremonies at the dinners. Always they had two\nItalians in to play a violin and harp and had a little dance in the\nstore. And here were two dresses being conceived to charm Ramsay\u2014one purple\nand the other red. Of course, the other eight girls were going to have\ndresses too, but they didn\u2019t count. Very likely they\u2019d wear some\nshirt-waist-and-black-skirt-affairs\u2014nothing as resplendent as purple or\nred.", "words": 277}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Grace had saved her money, too. She was going to buy her dress\nready-made. Oh, what\u2019s the use of bothering with a tailor\u2014when you\u2019ve\ngot a figger it\u2019s easy to get a fit\u2014the ready-made are intended for a\nperfect figger\u2014except I have to have \u2019em all taken in at the waist\u2014the\naverage figger is so large waisted. The night before Thanksgiving came. Maida hurried home, keen and bright\nwith the thoughts of the blessed morrow. Her thoughts were of purple,\nbut they were white themselves\u2014the joyous enthusiasm of the young for\nthe pleasures that youth must have or wither. She knew purple would\nbecome her, and\u2014for the thousandth time she tried to assure herself\nthat it was purple Mr. Ramsay said he liked and not red. She was going\nhome first to get the $4 wrapped in a piece of tissue paper in the\nbottom drawer of her dresser, and then she was going to pay Schlegel\nand take the dress home herself. Grace lived in the same house. She occupied the hall room above\nMaida\u2019s. At home Maida found clamor and confusion. The landlady\u2019s tongue\nclattering sourly in the halls like a churn dasher dabbing in\nbuttermilk. And then Grace come down to her room crying with eyes as\nred as any dress. \u201cShe says I\u2019ve got to get out,\u201d said Grace. \u201cThe old beast. Because I\nowe her $4. She\u2019s put my trunk in the hall and locked the door. I can\u2019t\ngo anywhere else. I haven\u2019t got a cent of money.\u201d \u201cYou had some yesterday,\u201d said Maida. \u201cI paid it on my dress,\u201d said Grace. \u201cI thought she\u2019d wait till next\nweek for the rent.\u201d Sniffle, sniffle, sob, sniffle. Out came\u2014out it had to come\u2014Maida\u2019s $4.", "words": 289}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cYou blessed darling,\u201d cried Grace, now a rainbow instead of sunset.\n\u201cI\u2019ll pay the mean old thing and then I\u2019m going to try on my dress. I\nthink it\u2019s heavenly. Come up and look at it. I\u2019ll pay the money back, a\ndollar a week\u2014honest I will.\u201d Thanksgiving. The dinner was to be at noon. At a quarter to twelve Grace switched\ninto Maida\u2019s room. Yes, she looked charming. Red was her color. Maida\nsat by the window in her old cheviot skirt and blue waist darning a\nst\u2014. Oh, doing fancy work. \u201cWhy, goodness me! ain\u2019t you dressed yet?\u201d shrilled the red one. \u201cHow\ndoes it fit in the back? Don\u2019t you think these velvet tabs look awful\nswell? Why ain\u2019t you dressed, Maida?\u201d \u201cMy dress didn\u2019t get finished in time,\u201d said Maida. \u201cI\u2019m not going to\nthe dinner.\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s too bad. Why, I\u2019m awfully sorry, Maida. Why don\u2019t you put on\nanything and come along\u2014it\u2019s just the store folks, you know, and they\nwon\u2019t mind.\u201d \u201cI was set on my purple,\u201d said Maida. \u201cIf I can\u2019t have it I won\u2019t go at\nall. Don\u2019t bother about me. Run along or you\u2019ll be late. You look awful\nnice in red.\u201d At her window Maida sat through the long morning and past the time of\nthe dinner at the store. In her mind she could hear the girls shrieking\nover a pull-bone, could hear old Bachman\u2019s roar over his own\ndeeply-concealed jokes, could see the diamonds of fat Mrs. Bachman, who\ncame to the store only on Thanksgiving days, could see Mr. Ramsay\nmoving about, alert, kindly, looking to the comfort of all. At four in the afternoon, with an expressionless face and a lifeless\nair she slowly made her way to Schlegel\u2019s shop and told him she could\nnot pay the $4 due on the dress.", "words": 307}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGott!\u201d cried Schlegel, angrily. \u201cFor what do you look so glum? Take\nhim away. He is ready. Pay me some time. Haf I not seen you pass mine\nshop every day in two years? If I make clothes is it that I do not know\nhow to read beoples because? You will pay me some time when you can.\nTake him away. He is made goot; and if you look bretty in him all\nright. So. Pay me when you can.\u201d Maida breathed a millionth part of the thanks in her heart, and hurried\naway with her dress. As she left the shop a smart dash of rain struck\nupon her face. She smiled and did not feel it. Ladies who shop in carriages, you do not understand. Girls whose\nwardrobes are charged to the old man\u2019s account, you cannot begin to\ncomprehend\u2014you could not understand why Maida did not feel the cold\ndash of the Thanksgiving rain. At five o\u2019clock she went out upon the street wearing her purple dress.\nThe rain had increased, and it beat down upon her in a steady,\nwind-blown pour. People were scurrying home and to cars with close-held\numbrellas and tight buttoned raincoats. Many of them turned their heads\nto marvel at this beautiful, serene, happy-eyed girl in the purple\ndress walking through the storm as though she were strolling in a\ngarden under summer skies. I say you do not understand it, ladies of the full purse and varied\nwardrobe. You do not know what it is to live with a perpetual longing\nfor pretty things\u2014to starve eight months in order to bring a purple\ndress and a holiday together. What difference if it rained, hailed,\nblew, snowed, cycloned?", "words": 287}, {"story": 82, "title": "THE PURPLE DRESS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Maida had no umbrella nor overshoes. She had her purple dress and she\nwalked abroad. Let the elements do their worst. A starved heart must\nhave one crumb during a year. The rain ran down and dripped from her\nfingers. Some one turned a corner and blocked her way. She looked up into Mr.\nRamsay\u2019s eyes, sparkling with admiration and interest. \u201cWhy, Miss Maida,\u201d said he, \u201cyou look simply magnificent in your new\ndress. I was greatly disappointed not to see you at our dinner. And of\nall the girls I ever knew, you show the greatest sense and\nintelligence. There is nothing more healthful and invigorating than\nbraving the weather as you are doing. May I walk with you?\u201d And Maida blushed and sneezed.", "words": 125}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "John Byrnes, hose-cart driver of Engine Company No. 99, was afflicted\nwith what his comrades called Japanitis. Byrnes had a war map spread permanently upon a table in the second\nstory of the engine-house, and he could explain to you at any hour of\nthe day or night the exact positions, conditions and intentions of both\nthe Russian and Japanese armies. He had little clusters of pins stuck\nin the map which represented the opposing forces, and these he moved\nabout from day to day in conformity with the war news in the daily\npapers. Wherever the Japs won a victory John Byrnes would shift his pins, and\nthen he would execute a war dance of delight, and the other firemen\nwould hear him yell: \u201cGo it, you blamed little, sawed-off,\nhuckleberry-eyed, monkey-faced hot tamales! Eat \u2019em up, you little\nsleight-o\u2019-hand, bow-legged bull terriers\u2014give \u2019em another of them Yalu\nlooloos, and you\u2019ll eat rice in St. Petersburg. Talk about your\nRussians\u2014say, wouldn\u2019t they give you a painsky when it comes to a\nscrapovitch?\u201d Not even on the fair island of Nippon was there a more enthusiastic\nchampion of the Mikado\u2019s men. Supporters of the Russian cause did well\nto keep clear of Engine-House No. 99. Sometimes all thoughts of the Japs left John Byrnes\u2019s head. That was\nwhen the alarm of fire had sounded and he was strapped in his driver\u2019s\nseat on the swaying cart, guiding Erebus and Joe, the finest team in\nthe whole department\u2014according to the crew of 99.", "words": 252}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Of all the codes adopted by man for regulating his actions toward his\nfellow-mortals, the greatest are these\u2014the code of King Arthur\u2019s\nKnights of the Round Table, the Constitution of the United States and\nthe unwritten rules of the New York Fire Department. The Round Table\nmethods are no longer practicable since the invention of street cars\nand breach-of-promise suits, and our Constitution is being found more\nand more unconstitutional every day, so the code of our firemen must be\nconsidered in the lead, with the Golden Rule and Jeffries\u2019s new punch\ntrying for place and show. The Constitution says that one man is as good as another; but the Fire\nDepartment says he is better. This is a too generous theory, but the\nlaw will not allow itself to be construed otherwise. All of which comes\nperilously near to being a paradox, and commends itself to the\nattention of the S. P. C. A. One of the transatlantic liners dumped out at Ellis Island a lump of\nprotozoa which was expected to evolve into an American citizen. A\nsteward kicked him down the gangway, a doctor pounced upon his eyes\nlike a raven, seeking for trachoma or ophthalmia; he was hustled ashore\nand ejected into the city in the name of Liberty\u2014perhaps,\ntheoretically, thus inoculating against kingocracy with a drop of its\nown virus. This hypodermic injection of Europeanism wandered happily\ninto the veins of the city with the broad grin of a pleased child. It\nwas not burdened with baggage, cares or ambitions. Its body was lithely\nbuilt and clothed in a sort of foreign fustian; its face was brightly\nvacant, with a small, flat nose, and was mostly covered by a thick,\nragged, curling beard like the coat of a spaniel. In the pocket of the\nimported Thing were a few\ncoins\u2014denarii\u2014scudi\u2014kopecks\u2014pfennigs\u2014pilasters\u2014whatever the financial\nnomenclature of his unknown country may have been.", "words": 315}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Prattling to himself, always broadly grinning, pleased by the roar and\nmovement of the barbarous city into which the steamship cut-rates had\nshunted him, the alien strayed away from the sea, which he hated, as\nfar as the district covered by Engine Company No. 99. Light as a cork,\nhe was kept bobbing along by the human tide, the crudest atom in all\nthe silt of the stream that emptied into the reservoir of Liberty. While crossing Third avenue he slowed his steps, enchanted by the\nthunder of the elevated trains above him and the soothing crash of the\nwheels on the cobbles. And then there was a new, delightful chord in\nthe uproar\u2014the musical clanging of a gong and a great shining\njuggernaut belching fire and smoke, that people were hurrying to see. This beautiful thing, entrancing to the eye, dashed past, and the\nprotoplasmic immigrant stepped into the wake of it with his broad,\nenraptured, uncomprehending grin. And so stepping, stepped into the\npath of No. 99\u2019s flying hose-cart, with John Byrnes gripping, with arms\nof steel, the reins over the plunging backs of Erebus and Joe. The unwritten constitutional code of the fireman has no exceptions or\namendments. It is a simple thing\u2014as simple as the rule of three. There\nwas the heedless unit in the right of way; there was the hose-cart and\nthe iron pillar of the elevated railroad. John Byrnes swung all his weight and muscle on the left rein. The team\nand cart swerved that way and crashed like a torpedo into the pillar.\nThe men on the cart went flying like skittles. The driver\u2019s strap\nburst, the pillar rang with the shock, and John Byrnes fell on the car\ntrack with a broken shoulder twenty feet away, while Erebus\u2014beautiful,\nraven-black, best-loved Erebus\u2014lay whickering in his harness with a\nbroken leg.", "words": 308}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In consideration for the feelings of Engine Company No. 99 the details\nwill be lightly touched. The company does not like to be reminded of\nthat day. There was a great crowd, and hurry calls were sent in; and\nwhile the ambulance gong was clearing the way the men of No. 99 heard\nthe crack of the S. P. C. A. agent\u2019s pistol, and turned their heads\naway, not daring to look toward Erebus again. When the firemen got back to the engine-house they found that one of\nthem was dragging by the collar the cause of their desolation and\ngrief. They set it in the middle of the floor and gathered grimly about\nit. Through its whiskers the calamitous object chattered effervescently\nand waved its hands. \u201cSounds like a seidlitz powder,\u201d said Mike Dowling, disgustedly, \u201cand\nit makes me sicker than one. Call that a man!\u2014that hoss was worth a\nsteamer full of such two-legged animals. It\u2019s a immigrant\u2014that\u2019s what\nit is.\u201d \u201cLook at the doctor\u2019s chalk mark on its coat,\u201d said Reilly, the desk\nman. \u201cIt\u2019s just landed. It must be a kind of a Dago or a Hun or one of\nthem Finns, I guess. That\u2019s the kind of truck that Europe unloads onto\nus.\u201d \u201cThink of a thing like that getting in the way and laying John up in\nhospital and spoiling the best fire team in the city,\u201d groaned another\nfireman. \u201cIt ought to be taken down to the dock and drowned.\u201d \u201cSomebody go around and get Sloviski,\u201d suggested the engine driver,\n\u201cand let\u2019s see what nation is responsible for this conglomeration of\nhair and head noises.\u201d Sloviski kept a delicatessen store around the corner on Third avenue,\nand was reputed to be a linguist. One of the men fetched him\u2014a fat, cringing man, with a discursive eye\nand the odors of many kinds of meats upon him.", "words": 313}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cTake a whirl at this importation with your jaw-breakers, Sloviski,\u201d\nrequested Mike Dowling. \u201cWe can\u2019t quite figure out whether he\u2019s from\nthe Hackensack bottoms or Hongkong-on-the-Ganges.\u201d Sloviski addressed the stranger in several dialects that ranged in\nrhythm and cadence from the sounds produced by a tonsilitis gargle to\nthe opening of a can of tomatoes with a pair of scissors. The immigrant\nreplied in accents resembling the uncorking of a bottle of ginger ale. \u201cI have you his name,\u201d reported Sloviski. \u201cYou shall not pronounce it.\nWriting of it in paper is better.\u201d They gave him paper, and he wrote,\n\u201cDemetre Svangvsk.\u201d \u201cLooks like short hand,\u201d said the desk man. \u201cHe speaks some language,\u201d continued the interpreter, wiping his\nforehead, \u201cof Austria and mixed with a little Turkish. And, den, he\nhave some Magyar words and a Polish or two, and many like the\nRoumanian, but not without talk of one tribe in Bessarabia. I do not\nhim quite understand.\u201d \u201cWould you call him a Dago or a Polocker, or what?\u201d asked Mike,\nfrowning at the polyglot description. \u201cHe is a\u201d\u2014answered Sloviski\u2014\u201che is a\u2014I dink he come from\u2014I dink he is a\nfool,\u201d he concluded, impatient at his linguistic failure, \u201cand if you\npleases I will go back at mine delicatessen.\u201d \u201cWhatever he is, he\u2019s a bird,\u201d said Mike Dowling; \u201cand you want to\nwatch him fly.\u201d Taking by the wing the alien fowl that had fluttered into the nest of\nLiberty, Mike led him to the door of the engine-house and bestowed upon\nhim a kick hearty enough to convey the entire animus of Company 99.\nDemetre Svangvsk hustled away down the sidewalk, turning once to show\nhis ineradicable grin to the aggrieved firemen.", "words": 285}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In three weeks John Byrnes was back at his post from the hospital. With\ngreat gusto he proceeded to bring his war map up to date. \u201cMy money on\nthe Japs every time,\u201d he declared. \u201cWhy, look at them Russians\u2014they\u2019re\nnothing but wolves. Wipe \u2019em out, I say\u2014and the little old jiu jitsu\ngang are just the cherry blossoms to do the trick, and don\u2019t you forget\nit!\u201d The second day after Byrnes\u2019s reappearance came Demetre Svangvsk, the\nunidentified, to the engine-house, with a broader grin than ever. He\nmanaged to convey the idea that he wished to congratulate the hose-cart\ndriver on his recovery and to apologize for having caused the accident.\nThis he accomplished by so many extravagant gestures and explosive\nnoises that the company was diverted for half an hour. Then they kicked\nhim out again, and on the next day he came back grinning. How or where\nhe lived no one knew. And then John Byrnes\u2019s nine-year-old son, Chris,\nwho brought him convalescent delicacies from home to eat, took a fancy\nto Svangvsk, and they allowed him to loaf about the door of the\nengine-house occasionally. One afternoon the big drab automobile of the Deputy Fire Commissioner\nbuzzed up to the door of No. 99 and the Deputy stepped inside for an\ninformal inspection. The men kicked Svangvsk out a little harder than\nusual and proudly escorted the Deputy around 99, in which everything\nshone like my lady\u2019s mirror. The Deputy respected the sorrow of the company concerning the loss of\nErebus, and he had come to promise it another mate for Joe that would\ndo him credit. So they let Joe out of his stall and showed the Deputy\nhow deserving he was of the finest mate that could be in horsedom.", "words": 297}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "While they were circling around Joe confabbing, Chris climbed into the\nDeputy\u2019s auto and threw the power full on. The men heard a monster\npuffing and a shriek from the lad, and sprang out too late. The big\nauto shot away, luckily taking a straight course down the street. The\nboy knew nothing of its machinery; he sat clutching the cushions and\nhowling. With the power on nothing could have stopped that auto except\na brick house, and there was nothing for Chris to gain by such a\nstoppage. Demetre Svangvsk was just coming in again with a grin for another kick\nwhen Chris played his merry little prank. While the others sprang for\nthe door Demetre sprang for Joe. He glided upon the horse\u2019s bare back\nlike a snake and shouted something at him like the crack of a dozen\nwhips. One of the firemen afterward swore that Joe answered him back in\nthe same language. Ten seconds after the auto started the big horse was\neating up the asphalt behind it like a strip of macaroni. Some people two blocks and a half away saw the rescue. They said that\nthe auto was nothing but a drab noise with a black speck in the middle\nof it for Chris, when a big bay horse with a lizard lying on its back\ncantered up alongside of it, and the lizard reached over and picked the\nblack speck out of the noise. Only fifteen minutes after Svangvsk\u2019s last kicking at the hands\u2014or\nrather the feet\u2014of Engine Company No. 99 he rode Joe back through the\ndoor with the boy safe, but acutely conscious of the licking he was\ngoing to receive. Svangvsk slipped to the floor, leaned his head against Joe\u2019s and made a\nnoise like a clucking hen. Joe nodded and whistled loudly through his\nnostrils, putting to shame the knowledge of Sloviski, of the\ndelicatessen.", "words": 317}, {"story": 83, "title": "THE FOREIGN POLICY OF COMPANY 99", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "John Byrnes walked up to Svangvsk, who grinned, expecting to be kicked.\nByrnes gripped the outlander so strongly by the hand that Demetre\ngrinned anyhow, conceiving it to be a new form of punishment. \u201cThe heathen rides like a Cossack,\u201d remarked a fireman who had seen a\nWild West show\u2014\u201cthey\u2019re the greatest riders in the world.\u201d The word seemed to electrify Svangvsk. He grinned wider than ever. \u201cYas\u2014yas\u2014me Cossack,\u201d he spluttered, striking his chest. \u201cCossack!\u201d repeated John Byrnes, thoughtfully, \u201cain\u2019t that a kind of a\nRussian?\u201d \u201cThey\u2019re one of the Russian tribes, sure,\u201d said the desk man, who read\nbooks between fire alarms. Just then Alderman Foley, who was on his way home and did not know of\nthe runaway, stopped at the door of the engine-house and called to\nByrnes: \u201cHello there, Jimmy, me boy\u2014how\u2019s the war coming along? Japs still got\nthe bear on the trot, have they?\u201d \u201cOh, I don\u2019t know,\u201d said John Byrnes, argumentatively, \u201cthem Japs\nhaven\u2019t got any walkover. You wait till Kuropatkin gets a good whack at\n\u2019em and they won\u2019t be knee-high to a puddle-ducksky.\u201d", "words": 182}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Since the bar has been blessed by the clergy, and cocktails open the\ndinners of the elect, one may speak of the saloon. Teetotalers need not\nlisten, if they choose; there is always the slot restaurant, where a\ndime dropped into the cold bouillon aperture will bring forth a dry\nMartini. Con Lantry worked on the sober side of the bar in Kenealy\u2019s caf\u00e9. You\nand I stood, one-legged like geese, on the other side and went into\nvoluntary liquidation with our week\u2019s wages. Opposite danced Con,\nclean, temperate, clear-headed, polite, white-jacketed, punctual,\ntrustworthy, young, responsible, and took our money. The saloon (whether blessed or cursed) stood in one of those little\n\u201cplaces\u201d which are parallelograms instead of streets, and inhabited by\nlaundries, decayed Knickerbocker families and Bohemians who have\nnothing to do with either. Over the caf\u00e9 lived Kenealy and his family. His daughter Katherine had\neyes of dark Irish\u2014but why should you be told? Be content with your\nGeraldine or your Eliza Ann. For Con dreamed of her; and when she\ncalled softly at the foot of the back stairs for the pitcher of beer\nfor dinner, his heart went up and down like a milk punch in the shaker.\nOrderly and fit are the rules of Romance; and if you hurl the last\nshilling of your fortune upon the bar for whiskey, the bartender shall\ntake it, and marry his boss\u2019s daughter, and good will grow out of it.", "words": 242}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But not so Con. For in the presence of woman he was tongue-tied and\nscarlet. He who would quell with his eye the sonorous youth whom the\nclaret punch made loquacious, or smash with lemon squeezer the\nobstreperous, or hurl gutterward the cantankerous without a wrinkle\ncoming to his white lawn tie, when he stood before woman he was\nvoiceless, incoherent, stuttering, buried beneath a hot avalanche of\nbashfulness and misery. What then was he before Katherine? A trembler,\nwith no word to say for himself, a stone without blarney, the dumbest\nlover that ever babbled of the weather in the presence of his divinity. There came to Kenealy\u2019s two sunburned men, Riley and McQuirk. They had\nconference with Kenealy; and then they took possession of a back room\nwhich they filled with bottles and siphons and jugs and druggist\u2019s\nmeasuring glasses. All the appurtenances and liquids of a saloon were\nthere, but they dispensed no drinks. All day long the two sweltered in\nthere pouring and mixing unknown brews and decoctions from the liquors\nin their store. Riley had the education, and he figured on reams of\npaper, reducing gallons to ounces and quarts to fluid drams. McQuirk, a\nmorose man with a red eye, dashed each unsuccessful completed mixture\ninto the waste pipes with curses gentle, husky and deep. They labored\nheavily and untiringly to achieve some mysterious solution like two\nalchemists striving to resolve gold from the elements. Into this back room one evening when his watch was done sauntered Con.\nHis professional curiosity had been stirred by these occult bartenders\nat whose bar none drank, and who daily drew upon Kenealy\u2019s store of\nliquors to follow their consuming and fruitless experiments. Down the back stairs came Katherine with her smile like sunrise on\nGweebarra Bay. \u201cGood evening, Mr. Lantry,\u201d says she. \u201cAnd what is the news to-day, if\nyou please?\u201d", "words": 314}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIt looks like r-rain,\u201d stammered the shy one, backing to the wall. \u201cIt couldn\u2019t do better,\u201d said Katherine. \u201cI\u2019m thinking there\u2019s nothing\nthe worse off for a little water.\u201d In the back room Riley and McQuirk\ntoiled like bearded witches over their strange compounds. From fifty\nbottles they drew liquids carefully measured after Riley\u2019s figures, and\nshook the whole together in a great glass vessel. Then McQuirk would\ndash it out, with gloomy profanity, and they would begin again. \u201cSit down,\u201d said Riley to Con, \u201cand I\u2019ll tell you. \u201cLast summer me and Tim concludes that an American bar in this nation\nof Nicaragua would pay. There was a town on the coast where there\u2019s\nnothing to eat but quinine and nothing to drink but rum. The natives\nand foreigners lay down with chills and get up with fevers; and a good\nmixed drink is nature\u2019s remedy for all such tropical inconveniences. \u201cSo we lays in a fine stock of wet goods in New York, and bar fixtures\nand glassware, and we sails for that Santa Palma town on a lime\nsteamer. On the way me and Tim sees flying fish and plays seven-up with\nthe captain and steward, and already begins to feel like the high-ball\nkings of the tropics of Capricorn. \u201cWhen we gets in five hours of the country that we was going to\nintroduce to long drinks and short change the captain calls us over to\nthe starboard binnacle and recollects a few things. \u201c\u2018I forgot to tell you, boys,\u2019 says he, \u2018that Nicaragua slapped an\nimport duty of 48 per cent. ad valorem on all bottled goods last month.\nThe President took a bottle of Cincinnati hair tonic by mistake for\ntabasco sauce, and he\u2019s getting even. Barrelled goods is free.\u2019", "words": 296}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2018Sorry you didn\u2019t mention it sooner,\u2019 says we. And we bought two\nforty-two gallon casks from the captain, and opened every bottle we had\nand dumped the stuff all together in the casks. That 48 per cent. would\nhave ruined us; so we took the chances on making that $1,200 cocktail\nrather than throw the stuff away. \u201cWell, when we landed we tapped one of the barrels. The mixture was\nsomething heartrending. It was the color of a plate of Bowery pea soup,\nand it tasted like one of those coffee substitutes your aunt makes you\ntake for the heart trouble you get by picking losers. We gave a nigger\nfour fingers of it to try it, and he lay under a cocoanut tree three\ndays beating the sand with his heels and refused to sign a testimonial. \u201cBut the other barrel! Say, bartender, did you ever put on a straw hat\nwith a yellow band around it and go up in a balloon with a pretty girl\nwith $8,000,000 in your pocket all at the same time? That\u2019s what thirty\ndrops of it would make you feel like. With two fingers of it inside you\nyou would bury your face in your hands and cry because there wasn\u2019t\nanything more worth while around for you to lick than little Jim\nJeffries. Yes, sir, the stuff in that second barrel was distilled\nelixir of battle, money and high life. It was the color of gold and as\nclear as glass, and it shone after dark like the sunshine was still in\nit. A thousand years from now you\u2019ll get a drink like that across the\nbar.", "words": 276}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWell, we started up business with that one line of drinks, and it was\nenough. The piebald gentry of that country stuck to it like a hive of\nbees. If that barrel had lasted that country would have become the\ngreatest on earth. When we opened up of mornings we had a line of\nGenerals and Colonels and ex-Presidents and revolutionists a block long\nwaiting to be served. We started in at 50 cents silver a drink. The\nlast ten gallons went easy at $5 a gulp. It was wonderful stuff. It\ngave a man courage and ambition and nerve to do anything; at the same\ntime he didn\u2019t care whether his money was tainted or fresh from the Ice\nTrust. When that barrel was half gone Nicaragua had repudiated the\nNational debt, removed the duty on cigarettes and was about to declare\nwar on the United States and England. \u201c\u2019Twas by accident we discovered this king of drinks, and \u2019twill be by\ngood luck if we strike it again. For ten months we\u2019ve been trying.\nSmall lots at a time, we\u2019ve mixed barrels of all the harmful\ningredients known to the profession of drinking. Ye could have stocked\nten bars with the whiskies, brandies, cordials, bitters, gins and wines\nme and Tim have wasted. A glorious drink like that to be denied to the\nworld! \u2019Tis a sorrow and a loss of money. The United States as a nation\nwould welcome a drink of that sort, and pay for it.\u201d All the while McQuirk had been carefully measuring and pouring together\nsmall quantities of various spirits, as Riley called them, from his\nlatest pencilled prescription. The completed mixture was of a vile,\nmottled chocolate color. McQuirk tasted it, and hurled it, with\nappropriate epithets, into the waste sink. \u201c\u2019Tis a strange story, even if true,\u201d said Con. \u201cI\u2019ll be going now\nalong to my supper.\u201d", "words": 316}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cTake a drink,\u201d said Riley. \u201cWe\u2019ve all kinds except the lost blend.\u201d \u201cI never drink,\u201d said Con, \u201canything stronger than water. I am just\nafter meeting Miss Katherine by the stairs. She said a true word.\n\u2018There\u2019s not anything,\u2019 says she, \u2018but is better off for a little\nwater.\u2019\u201d When Con had left them Riley almost felled McQuirk by a blow on the\nback. \u201cDid ye hear that?\u201d he shouted. \u201cTwo fools are we. The six dozen\nbottles of \u2019pollinaris we had on the ship\u2014ye opened them yourself\u2014which\nbarrel did ye pour them in\u2014which barrel, ye mudhead?\u201d \u201cI mind,\u201d said McQuirk, slowly, \u201c\u2019twas in the second barrel we opened.\nI mind the blue piece of paper pasted on the side of it.\u201d \u201cWe\u2019ve got it now,\u201d cried Riley. \u201c\u2019Twas that we lacked. \u2019Tis the water\nthat does the trick. Everything else we had right. Hurry, man, and get\ntwo bottles of \u2019pollinaris from the bar, while I figure out the\nproportionments with me pencil.\u201d An hour later Con strolled down the sidewalk toward Kenealy\u2019s caf\u00e9.\nThus faithful employees haunt, during their recreation hours, the\nvicinity where they labor, drawn by some mysterious attraction. A police patrol wagon stood at the side door. Three able cops were half\ncarrying, half hustling Riley and McQuirk up its rear steps. The eyes\nand faces of each bore the bruises and cuts of sanguinary and assiduous\nconflict. Yet they whooped with strange joy, and directed upon the\npolice the feeble remnants of their pugnacious madness. \u201cBegan fighting each other in the back room,\u201d explained Kenealy to Con.\n\u201cAnd singing! That was worse. Smashed everything pretty much up. But\nthey\u2019re good men. They\u2019ll pay for everything. Trying to invent some new\nkind of cocktail, they was. I\u2019ll see they come out all right in the\nmorning.\u201d", "words": 301}, {"story": 84, "title": "THE LOST BLEND", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Con sauntered into the back room to view the battlefield. As he went\nthrough the hall Katherine was just coming down the stairs. \u201cGood evening again, Mr. Lantry,\u201d said she. \u201cAnd is there no news from\nthe weather yet?\u201d \u201cStill threatens r-rain,\u201d said Con, slipping past with red in his\nsmooth, pale cheek. Riley and McQuirk had indeed waged a great and friendly battle. Broken\nbottles and glasses were everywhere. The room was full of alcohol\nfumes; the floor was variegated with spirituous puddles. On the table stood a 32-ounce glass graduated measure. In the bottom of\nit were two tablespoonfuls of liquid\u2014a bright golden liquid that seemed\nto hold the sunshine a prisoner in its auriferous depths. Con smelled it. He tasted it. He drank it. As he returned through the hall Katherine was just going up the stairs. \u201cNo news yet, Mr. Lantry?\u201d she asked with her teasing laugh. Con lifted her clear from the floor and held her there. \u201cThe news is,\u201d he said, \u201cthat we\u2019re to be married.\u201d \u201cPut me down, sir!\u201d she cried indignantly, \u201cor I will\u2014 Oh, Con, where,\noh, wherever did you get the nerve to say it?\u201d", "words": 195}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Harlem. Mrs. Fink had dropped into Mrs. Cassidy\u2019s flat one flight below. \u201cAin\u2019t it a beaut?\u201d said Mrs. Cassidy. She turned her face proudly for her friend Mrs. Fink to see. One eye\nwas nearly closed, with a great, greenish-purple bruise around it. Her\nlip was cut and bleeding a little and there were red finger-marks on\neach side of her neck. \u201cMy husband wouldn\u2019t ever think of doing that to me,\u201d said Mrs. Fink,\nconcealing her envy. \u201cI wouldn\u2019t have a man,\u201d declared Mrs. Cassidy, \u201cthat didn\u2019t beat me up\nat least once a week. Shows he thinks something of you. Say! but that\nlast dose Jack gave me wasn\u2019t no homeopathic one. I can see stars yet.\nBut he\u2019ll be the sweetest man in town for the rest of the week to make\nup for it. This eye is good for theater tickets and a silk shirt waist\nat the very least.\u201d \u201cI should hope,\u201d said Mrs. Fink, assuming complacency, \u201cthat Mr. Fink\nis too much of a gentleman ever to raise his hand against me.\u201d \u201cOh, go on, Maggie!\u201d said Mrs. Cassidy, laughing and applying witch\nhazel, \u201cyou\u2019re only jealous. Your old man is too frapp\u00e9d and slow to\never give you a punch. He just sits down and practises physical culture\nwith a newspaper when he comes home\u2014now ain\u2019t that the truth?\u201d \u201cMr. Fink certainly peruses of the papers when he comes home,\u201d\nacknowledged Mrs. Fink, with a toss of her head; \u201cbut he certainly\ndon\u2019t ever make no Steve O\u2019Donnell out of me just to amuse\nhimself\u2014that\u2019s a sure thing.\u201d Mrs. Cassidy laughed the contented laugh of the guarded and happy\nmatron. With the air of Cornelia exhibiting her jewels, she drew down\nthe collar of her kimono and revealed another treasured bruise,\nmaroon-colored, edged with olive and orange\u2014a bruise now nearly well,\nbut still to memory dear.", "words": 313}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mrs. Fink capitulated. The formal light in her eye softened to envious\nadmiration. She and Mrs. Cassidy had been chums in the downtown\npaper-box factory before they had married, one year before. Now she and\nher man occupied the flat above Mame and her man. Therefore she could\nnot put on airs with Mame. \u201cDon\u2019t it hurt when he soaks you?\u201d asked Mrs. Fink, curiously. \u201cHurt!\u201d\u2014Mrs. Cassidy gave a soprano scream of delight. \u201cWell, say\u2014did\nyou ever have a brick house fall on you?\u2014well, that\u2019s just the way it\nfeels\u2014just like when they\u2019re digging you out of the ruins. Jack\u2019s got a\nleft that spells two matinees and a new pair of Oxfords\u2014and his\nright!\u2014well, it takes a trip to Coney and six pairs of openwork, silk\nlisle threads to make that good.\u201d \u201cBut what does he beat you for?\u201d inquired Mrs. Fink, with wide-open\neyes. \u201cSilly!\u201d said Mrs. Cassidy, indulgently. \u201cWhy, because he\u2019s full. It\u2019s\ngenerally on Saturday nights.\u201d \u201cBut what cause do you give him?\u201d persisted the seeker after knowledge.", "words": 172}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy, didn\u2019t I marry him? Jack comes in tanked up; and I\u2019m here, ain\u2019t\nI? Who else has he got a right to beat? I\u2019d just like to catch him once\nbeating anybody else! Sometimes it\u2019s because supper ain\u2019t ready; and\nsometimes it\u2019s because it is. Jack ain\u2019t particular about causes. He\njust lushes till he remembers he\u2019s married, and then he makes for home\nand does me up. Saturday nights I just move the furniture with sharp\ncorners out of the way, so I won\u2019t cut my head when he gets his work\nin. He\u2019s got a left swing that jars you! Sometimes I take the count in\nthe first round; but when I feel like having a good time during the\nweek or want some new rags I come up again for more punishment. That\u2019s\nwhat I done last night. Jack knows I\u2019ve been wanting a black silk waist\nfor a month, and I didn\u2019t think just one black eye would bring it. Tell\nyou what, Mag, I\u2019ll bet you the ice cream he brings it to-night.\u201d Mrs. Fink was thinking deeply. \u201cMy Mart,\u201d she said, \u201cnever hit me a lick in his life. It\u2019s just like\nyou said, Mame; he comes in grouchy and ain\u2019t got a word to say. He\nnever takes me out anywhere. He\u2019s a chair-warmer at home for fair. He\nbuys me things, but he looks so glum about it that I never appreciate\n\u2019em.\u201d", "words": 242}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mrs. Cassidy slipped an arm around her chum. \u201cYou poor thing!\u201d she\nsaid. \u201cBut everybody can\u2019t have a husband like Jack. Marriage wouldn\u2019t\nbe no failure if they was all like him. These discontented wives you\nhear about\u2014what they need is a man to come home and kick their slats in\nonce a week, and then make it up in kisses, and chocolate creams.\nThat\u2019d give \u2019em some interest in life. What I want is a masterful man\nthat slugs you when he\u2019s jagged and hugs you when he ain\u2019t jagged.\nPreserve me from the man that ain\u2019t got the sand to do neither!\u201d Mrs. Fink sighed. The hallways were suddenly filled with sound. The door flew open at the\nkick of Mr. Cassidy. His arms were occupied with bundles. Mame flew and\nhung about his neck. Her sound eye sparkled with the love light that\nshines in the eye of the Maori maid when she recovers consciousness in\nthe hut of the wooer who has stunned and dragged her there. \u201cHello, old girl!\u201d shouted Mr. Cassidy. He shed his bundles and lifted\nher off her feet in a mighty hug. \u201cI got tickets for Barnum & Bailey\u2019s,\nand if you\u2019ll bust the string of one of them bundles I guess you\u2019ll\nfind that silk waist\u2014why, good evening, Mrs. Fink\u2014I didn\u2019t see you at\nfirst. How\u2019s old Mart coming along?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s very well, Mr. Cassidy\u2014thanks,\u201d said Mrs. Fink. \u201cI must be going\nalong up now. Mart\u2019ll be home for supper soon. I\u2019ll bring you down that\npattern you wanted to-morrow, Mame.\u201d", "words": 261}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mrs. Fink went up to her flat and had a little cry. It was a\nmeaningless cry, the kind of cry that only a woman knows about, a cry\nfrom no particular cause, altogether an absurd cry; the most transient\nand the most hopeless cry in the repertory of grief. Why had Martin\nnever thrashed her? He was as big and strong as Jack Cassidy. Did he\nnot care for her at all? He never quarrelled; he came home and lounged\nabout, silent, glum, idle. He was a fairly good provider, but he\nignored the spices of life. Mrs. Fink\u2019s ship of dreams was becalmed. Her captain ranged between\nplum duff and his hammock. If only he would shiver his timbers or stamp\nhis foot on the quarter-deck now and then! And she had thought to sail\nso merrily, touching at ports in the Delectable Isles! But now, to vary\nthe figure, she was ready to throw up the sponge, tired out, without a\nscratch to show for all those tame rounds with her sparring partner.\nFor one moment she almost hated Mame\u2014Mame, with her cuts and bruises,\nher salve of presents and kisses; her stormy voyage with her fighting,\nbrutal, loving mate. Mr. Fink came home at 7. He was permeated with the curse of\ndomesticity. Beyond the portals of his cozy home he cared not to roam,\nto roam. He was the man who had caught the street car, the anaconda\nthat had swallowed its prey, the tree that lay as it had fallen. \u201cLike the supper, Mart?\u201d asked Mrs. Fink, who had striven over it. \u201cM-m-m-yep,\u201d grunted Mr. Fink. After supper he gathered his newspapers to read. He sat in his stocking\nfeet.", "words": 286}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Arise, some new Dante, and sing me the befitting corner of perdition\nfor the man who sitteth in the house in his stockinged feet. Sisters of\nPatience who by reason of ties or duty have endured it in silk, yarn,\ncotton, lisle thread or woollen\u2014does not the new canto belong? The next day was Labor Day. The occupations of Mr. Cassidy and Mr. Fink\nceased for one passage of the sun. Labor, triumphant, would parade and\notherwise disport itself. Mrs. Fink took Mrs. Cassidy\u2019s pattern down early. Mame had on her new\nsilk waist. Even her damaged eye managed to emit a holiday gleam. Jack\nwas fruitfully penitent, and there was a hilarious scheme for the day\nafoot, with parks and picnics and Pilsener in it. A rising, indignant jealousy seized Mrs. Fink as she returned to her\nflat above. Oh, happy Mame, with her bruises and her quick-following\nbalm! But was Mame to have a monopoly of happiness? Surely Martin Fink\nwas as good a man as Jack Cassidy. Was his wife to go always\nunbelabored and uncaressed? A sudden, brilliant, breathless idea came\nto Mrs. Fink. She would show Mame that there were husbands as able to\nuse their fists and perhaps to be as tender afterward as any Jack. The holiday promised to be a nominal one with the Finks. Mrs. Fink had\nthe stationary washtubs in the kitchen filled with a two weeks\u2019 wash\nthat had been soaking overnight. Mr. Fink sat in his stockinged feet\nreading a newspaper. Thus Labor Day presaged to speed. Jealousy surged high in Mrs. Fink\u2019s heart, and higher still surged an\naudacious resolve. If her man would not strike her\u2014if he would not so\nfar prove his manhood, his prerogative and his interest in conjugal\naffairs, he must be prompted to his duty.", "words": 303}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Fink lit his pipe and peacefully rubbed an ankle with a stockinged\ntoe. He reposed in the state of matrimony like a lump of unblended suet\nin a pudding. This was his level Elysium\u2014to sit at ease vicariously\ngirdling the world in print amid the wifely splashing of suds and the\nagreeable smells of breakfast dishes departed and dinner ones to come.\nMany ideas were far from his mind; but the furthest one was the thought\nof beating his wife. Mrs. Fink turned on the hot water and set the washboards in the suds.\nUp from the flat below came the gay laugh of Mrs. Cassidy. It sounded\nlike a taunt, a flaunting of her own happiness in the face of the\nunslugged bride above. Now was Mrs. Fink\u2019s time. Suddenly she turned like a fury upon the man reading. \u201cYou lazy loafer!\u201d she cried, \u201cmust I work my arms off washing and\ntoiling for the ugly likes of you? Are you a man or are you a kitchen\nhound?\u201d Mr. Fink dropped his paper, motionless from surprise. She feared that\nhe would not strike\u2014that the provocation had been insufficient. She\nleaped at him and struck him fiercely in the face with her clenched\nhand. In that instant she felt a thrill of love for him such as she had\nnot felt for many a day. Rise up, Martin Fink, and come into your\nkingdom! Oh, she must feel the weight of his hand now\u2014just to show that\nhe cared\u2014just to show that he cared! Mr. Fink sprang to his feet\u2014Maggie caught him again on the jaw with a\nwide swing of her other hand. She closed her eyes in that fearful,\nblissful moment before his blow should come\u2014she whispered his name to\nherself\u2014she leaned to the expected shock, hungry for it.", "words": 303}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In the flat below Mr. Cassidy, with a shamed and contrite face was\npowdering Mame\u2019s eye in preparation for their junket. From the flat\nabove came the sound of a woman\u2019s voice, high-raised, a bumping, a\nstumbling and a shuffling, a chair overturned\u2014unmistakable sounds of\ndomestic conflict. \u201cMart and Mag scrapping?\u201d postulated Mr. Cassidy. \u201cDidn\u2019t know they\never indulged. Shall I trot up and see if they need a sponge holder?\u201d One of Mrs. Cassidy\u2019s eyes sparkled like a diamond. The other twinkled\nat least like paste. \u201cOh, oh,\u201d she said, softly and without apparent meaning, in the\nfeminine ejaculatory manner. \u201cI wonder if\u2014wonder if! Wait, Jack, till I\ngo up and see.\u201d Up the stairs she sped. As her foot struck the hallway above out from\nthe kitchen door of her flat wildly flounced Mrs. Fink. \u201cOh, Maggie,\u201d cried Mrs. Cassidy, in a delighted whisper; \u201cdid he? Oh,\ndid he?\u201d Mrs. Fink ran and laid her face upon her chum\u2019s shoulder and sobbed\nhopelessly. Mrs. Cassidy took Maggie\u2019s face between her hands and lifted it gently.\nTear-stained it was, flushing and paling, but its velvety,\npink-and-white, becomingly freckled surface was unscratched, unbruised,\nunmarred by the recreant fist of Mr. Fink. \u201cTell me, Maggie,\u201d pleaded Mame, \u201cor I\u2019ll go in there and find out.\nWhat was it? Did he hurt you\u2014what did he do?\u201d Mrs. Fink\u2019s face went down again despairingly on the bosom of her\nfriend. \u201cFor God\u2019s sake don\u2019t open that door, Mame,\u201d she sobbed. \u201cAnd don\u2019t\never tell nobody\u2014keep it under your hat. He\u2014he never touched me,\nand\u2014he\u2019s\u2014oh, Gawd\u2014he\u2019s washin\u2019 the clothes\u2014he\u2019s washin\u2019 the clothes!\u201d \u201cTHE GUILTY PARTY\u201d", "words": 271}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sat in a rocking chair by a window.\nHe had just lighted a pipe, and was puffing blue clouds with great\nsatisfaction. He had removed his shoes and donned a pair of blue, faded\ncarpet-slippers. With the morbid thirst of the confirmed daily news\ndrinker, he awkwardly folded back the pages of an evening paper,\neagerly gulping down the strong, black headlines, to be followed as a\nchaser by the milder details of the smaller type. In an adjoining room a woman was cooking supper. Odors from strong\nbacon and boiling coffee contended against the cut-plug fumes from the\nvespertine pipe. Outside was one of those crowded streets of the east side, in which, as\ntwilight falls, Satan sets up his recruiting office. A mighty host of\nchildren danced and ran and played in the street. Some in rags, some in\nclean white and beribboned, some wild and restless as young hawks, some\ngentle-faced and shrinking, some shrieking rude and sinful words, some\nlistening, awed, but soon, grown familiar, to embrace\u2014here were the\nchildren playing in the corridors of the House of Sin. Above the\nplayground forever hovered a great bird. The bird was known to\nhumorists as the stork. But the people of Chrystie street were better\nornithologists. They called it a vulture. A little girl of twelve came up timidly to the man reading and resting\nby the window, and said: \u201cPapa, won\u2019t you play a game of checkers with me if you aren\u2019t too\ntired?\u201d The red-haired, unshaven, untidy man sitting shoeless by the window\nanswered, with a frown. \u201cCheckers. No, I won\u2019t. Can\u2019t a man who works hard all day have a\nlittle rest when he comes home? Why don\u2019t you go out and play with the\nother kids on the sidewalk?\u201d The woman who was cooking came to the door.", "words": 310}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cJohn,\u201d she said, \u201cI don\u2019t like for Lizzie to play in the street. They\nlearn too much there that ain\u2019t good for \u2019em. She\u2019s been in the house\nall day long. It seems that you might give up a little of your time to\namuse her when you come home.\u201d \u201cLet her go out and play like the rest of \u2019em if she wants to be\namused,\u201d said the red-haired, unshaven, untidy man, \u201cand don\u2019t bother\nme.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re on,\u201d said Kid Mullaly. \u201cFifty dollars to $25 I take Annie to\nthe dance. Put up.\u201d The Kid\u2019s black eyes were snapping with the fire of the baited and\nchallenged. He drew out his \u201croll\u201d and slapped five tens upon the bar.\nThe three or four young fellows who were thus \u201ctaken\u201d more slowly\nproduced their stake. The bartender, ex-officio stakeholder, took the\nmoney, laboriously wrapped it, recorded the bet with an inch-long\npencil and stuffed the whole into a corner of the cash register. \u201cAnd, oh, what\u2019ll be done to you\u2019ll be a plenty,\u201d said a bettor, with\nanticipatory glee. \u201cThat\u2019s my lookout,\u201d said the \u201cKid,\u201d sternly. \u201cFill \u2019em up all around,\nMike.\u201d After the round Burke, the \u201cKid\u2019s\u201d sponge, sponge-holder, pal, Mentor\nand Grand Vizier, drew him out to the bootblack stand at the saloon\ncorner where all the official and important matters of the Small Hours\nSocial Club were settled. As Tony polished the light tan shoes of the\nclub\u2019s President and Secretary for the fifth time that day, Burke spake\nwords of wisdom to his chief. \u201cCut that blond out, \u2018Kid,\u2019\u201d was his advice, \u201cor there\u2019ll be trouble.\nWhat do you want to throw down that girl of yours for? You\u2019ll never\nfind one that\u2019ll freeze to you like Liz has. She\u2019s worth a hallful of\nAnnies.\u201d", "words": 299}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m no Annie admirer!\u201d said the \u201cKid,\u201d dropping a cigarette ash on his\npolished toe, and wiping it off on Tony\u2019s shoulder. \u201cBut I want to\nteach Liz a lesson. She thinks I belong to her. She\u2019s been bragging\nthat I daren\u2019t speak to another girl. Liz is all right\u2014in some ways.\nShe\u2019s drinking a little too much lately. And she uses language that a\nlady oughtn\u2019t.\u201d \u201cYou\u2019re engaged, ain\u2019t you?\u201d asked Burke. \u201cSure. We\u2019ll get married next year, maybe.\u201d \u201cI saw you make her drink her first glass of beer,\u201d said Burke. \u201cThat\nwas two years ago, when she used to come down to the corner of Chrystie\nbare-headed to meet you after supper. She was a quiet sort of a kid\nthen, and couldn\u2019t speak without blushing.\u201d \u201cShe\u2019s a little spitfire, sometimes, now,\u201d said the Kid. \u201cI hate\njealousy. That\u2019s why I\u2019m going to the dance with Annie. It\u2019ll teach her\nsome sense.\u201d \u201cWell, you better look a little out,\u201d were Burke\u2019s last words. \u201cIf Liz\nwas my girl and I was to sneak out to a dance coupled up with an Annie,\nI\u2019d want a suit of chain armor on under my gladsome rags, all right.\u201d Through the land of the stork-vulture wandered Liz. Her black eyes\nsearched the passing crowds fierily but vaguely. Now and then she\nhummed bars of foolish little songs. Between times she set her small,\nwhite teeth together, and spake crisp words that the east side has\nadded to language. Liz\u2019s skirt was green silk. Her waist was a large brown-and-pink plaid,\nwell-fitting and not without style. She wore a cluster ring of huge\nimitation rubies, and a locket that banged her knees at the bottom of a\nsilver chain. Her shoes were run down over twisted high heels, and were\nstrangers to polish. Her hat would scarcely have passed into a flour\nbarrel.", "words": 312}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The \u201cFamily Entrance\u201d of the Blue Jay Caf\u00e9 received her. At a table she\nsat, and punched the button with the air of milady ringing for her\ncarriage. The waiter came with his large-chinned, low-voiced manner of\nrespectful familiarity. Liz smoothed her silken skirt with a satisfied\nwriggle. She made the most of it. Here she could order and be waited\nupon. It was all that her world offered her of the prerogative of\nwoman. \u201cWhiskey, Tommy,\u201d she said as her sisters further uptown murmur,\n\u201cChampagne, James.\u201d \u201cSure, Miss Lizzie. What\u2019ll the chaser be?\u201d \u201cSeltzer. And say, Tommy, has the Kid been around to-day?\u201d \u201cWhy, no, Miss Lizzie, I haven\u2019t saw him to-day.\u201d Fluently came the \u201cMiss Lizzie,\u201d for the Kid was known to be one who\nrequired rigid upholdment of the dignity of his fiancee. \u201cI\u2019m lookin\u2019 for \u2019m,\u201d said Liz, after the chaser had sputtered under\nher nose. \u201cIt\u2019s got to me that he says he\u2019ll take Annie Karlson to the\ndance. Let him. The pink-eyed white rat! I\u2019m lookin\u2019 for \u2019m. You know\nme, Tommy. Two years me and the Kid\u2019s been engaged. Look at that ring.\nFive hundred, he said it cost. Let him take her to the dance. What\u2019ll I\ndo? I\u2019ll cut his heart out. Another whiskey, Tommy.\u201d \u201cI wouldn\u2019t listen to no such reports, Miss Lizzie,\u201d said the waiter\nsmoothly, from the narrow opening above his chin. \u201cKid Mullaly\u2019s not\nthe guy to throw a lady like you down. Seltzer on the side?\u201d", "words": 250}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cTwo years,\u201d repeated Liz, softening a little to sentiment under the\nmagic of the distiller\u2019s art. \u201cI always used to play out on the street\nof evenin\u2019s \u2019cause there was nothin\u2019 doin\u2019 for me at home. For a long\ntime I just sat on doorsteps and looked at the lights and the people\ngoin\u2019 by. And then the Kid came along one evenin\u2019 and sized me up, and\nI was mashed on the spot for fair. The first drink he made me take I\ncried all night at home, and got a lickin\u2019 for makin\u2019 a noise. And\nnow\u2014say, Tommy, you ever see this Annie Karlson? If it wasn\u2019t for\nperoxide the chloroform limit would have put her out long ago. Oh, I\u2019m\nlookin\u2019 for \u2019m. You tell the Kid if he comes in. Me? I\u2019ll cut his heart\nout. Leave it to me. Another whiskey, Tommy.\u201d A little unsteadily, but with watchful and brilliant eyes, Liz walked\nup the avenue. On the doorstep of a brick tenement a curly-haired child\nsat, puzzling over the convolutions of a tangled string. Liz flopped\ndown beside her, with a crooked, shifting smile on her flushed face.\nBut her eyes had grown clear and artless of a sudden. \u201cLet me show you how to make a cat\u2019s-cradle, kid,\u201d she said, tucking\nher green silk skirt under her rusty shoes. And while they sat there the lights were being turned on for the dance\nin the hall of the Small Hours Social Club. It was the bi-monthly\ndance, a dress affair in which the members took great pride and\nbestirred themselves huskily to further and adorn.", "words": 272}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At 9 o\u2019clock the President, Kid Mullaly, paced upon the floor with a\nlady on his arm. As the Loreley\u2019s was her hair golden. Her \u201cyes\u201d was\nsoftened to a \u201cyah,\u201d but its quality of assent was patent to the most\nMilesian ears. She stepped upon her own train and blushed, and\u2014she\nsmiled into the eyes of Kid Mullaly. And then, as the two stood in the middle of the waxed floor, the thing\nhappened to prevent which many lamps are burning nightly in many\nstudies and libraries. Out from the circle of spectators in the hall leaped Fate in a green\nsilk skirt, under the _nom de guerre_ of \u201cLiz.\u201d Her eyes were hard and\nblacker than jet. She did not scream or waver. Most unwomanly, she\ncried out one oath\u2014the Kid\u2019s own favorite oath\u2014and in his own deep\nvoice; and then while the Small Hours Social Club went frantically to\npieces, she made good her boast to Tommy, the waiter\u2014made good as far\nas the length of her knife blade and the strength of her arm permitted. And next came the primal instinct of self-preservation\u2014or was it\nself-annihilation, the instinct that society has grafted on the natural\nbranch? Liz ran out and down the street swift and true as a woodcock flying\nthrough a grove of saplings at dusk. And then followed the big city\u2019s biggest shame, its most ancient and\nrotten surviving canker, its pollution and disgrace, its blight and\nperversion, its forever infamy and guilt, fostered, unreproved and\ncherished, handed down from a long-ago century of the basest\nbarbarity\u2014the Hue and Cry. Nowhere but in the big cities does it\nsurvive, and here most of all, where the ultimate perfection of\nculture, citizenship and alleged superiority joins, bawling, in the\nchase.", "words": 295}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "They pursued\u2014a shrieking mob of fathers, mothers, lovers and\nmaidens\u2014howling, yelling, calling, whistling, crying for blood. Well\nmay the wolf in the big city stand outside the door. Well may his\nheart, the gentler, falter at the siege. Knowing her way, and hungry for her surcease, she darted down the\nfamiliar ways until at last her feet struck the dull solidity of the\nrotting pier. And then it was but a few more panting steps\u2014and good\nmother East River took Liz to her bosom, soothed her muddily but\nquickly, and settled in five minutes the problem that keeps lights\nburning o\u2019 nights in thousands of pastorates and colleges. It\u2019s mighty funny what kind of dreams one has sometimes. Poets call\nthem visions, but a vision is only a dream in blank verse. I dreamed\nthe rest of this story. I thought I was in the next world. I don\u2019t know how I got there; I\nsuppose I had been riding on the Ninth avenue elevated or taking patent\nmedicine or trying to pull Jim Jeffries\u2019s nose, or doing some such\nlittle injudicious stunt. But, anyhow, there I was, and there was a\ngreat crowd of us outside the courtroom where the judgments were going\non. And every now and then a very beautiful and imposing court-officer\nangel would come outside the door and call another case. While I was considering my own worldly sins and wondering whether there\nwould be any use of my trying to prove an alibi by claiming that I\nlived in New Jersey, the bailiff angel came to the door and sang out: \u201cCase No. 99,852,743.\u201d Up stepped a plain-clothes man\u2014there were lots of \u2019em there, dressed\nexactly like preachers and hustling us spirits around just like cops do\non earth\u2014and by the arm he dragged\u2014whom, do you think? Why, Liz!", "words": 305}, {"story": 85, "title": "A HARLEM TRAGEDY", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The court officer took her inside and closed the door. I went up to Mr.\nFly-Cop and inquired about the case. \u201cA very sad one,\u201d says he, laying the points of his manicured fingers\ntogether. \u201cAn utterly incorrigible girl. I am Special Terrestrial\nOfficer the Reverend Jones. The case was assigned to me. The girl\nmurdered her fiance and committed suicide. She had no defense. My\nreport to the court relates the facts in detail, all of which are\nsubstantiated by reliable witnesses. The wages of sin is death. Praise\nthe Lord.\u201d The court officer opened the door and stepped out. \u201cPoor girl,\u201d said Special Terrestrial Officer the Reverend Jones, with\na tear in his eye. \u201cIt was one of the saddest cases that I ever met\nwith. Of course she was\u201d\u2014 \u201cDischarged,\u201d said the court officer. \u201cCome here, Jonesy. First thing\nyou know you\u2019ll be switched to the pot-pie squad. How would you like to\nbe on the missionary force in the South Sea Islands\u2014hey? Now, you quit\nmaking these false arrests, or you\u2019ll be transferred\u2014see? The guilty\nparty you\u2019ve got to look for in this case is a red-haired, unshaven,\nuntidy man, sitting by the window reading, in his stocking feet, while\nhis children play in the streets. Get a move on you.\u201d Now, wasn\u2019t that a silly dream?", "words": 221}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Somewhere in the depths of the big city, where the unquiet dregs are\nforever being shaken together, young Murray and the Captain had met and\nbecome friends. Both were at the lowest ebb possible to their fortunes;\nboth had fallen from at least an intermediate Heaven of respectability\nand importance, and both were typical products of the monstrous and\npeculiar social curriculum of their overweening and bumptious civic\nalma mater. The captain was no longer a captain. One of those sudden moral\ncataclysms that sometimes sweep the city had hurled him from a high and\nprofitable position in the Police Department, ripping off his badge and\nbuttons and washing into the hands of his lawyers the solid pieces of\nreal estate that his frugality had enabled him to accumulate. The\npassing of the flood left him low and dry. One month after his\ndishabilitation a saloon-keeper plucked him by the neck from his\nfree-lunch counter as a tabby plucks a strange kitten from her nest,\nand cast him asphaltward. This seems low enough. But after that he\nacquired a pair of cloth top, button Congress gaiters and wrote\ncomplaining letters to the newspapers. And then he fought the attendant\nat the Municipal Lodging House who tried to give him a bath. When\nMurray first saw him he was holding the hand of an Italian woman who\nsold apples and garlic on Essex street, and quoting the words of a song\nbook ballad.", "words": 242}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Murray\u2019s fall had been more Luciferian, if less spectacular. All the\npretty, tiny little kickshaws of Gotham had once been his. The\nmegaphone man roars out at you to observe the house of his uncle on a\ngrand and revered avenue. But there had been an awful row about\nsomething, and the prince had been escorted to the door by the butler,\nwhich, in said avenue, is equivalent to the impact of the avuncular\nshoe. A weak Prince Hal, without inheritance or sword, he drifted\ndownward to meet his humorless Falstaff, and to pick the crusts of the\nstreets with him. One evening they sat on a bench in a little downtown park. The great\nbulk of the Captain, which starvation seemed to increase\u2014drawing irony\ninstead of pity to his petitions for aid\u2014was heaped against the arm of\nthe bench in a shapeless mass. His red face, spotted by tufts of\nvermilion, week-old whiskers and topped by a sagging white straw hat,\nlooked, in the gloom, like one of those structures that you may observe\nin a dark Third avenue window, challenging your imagination to say\nwhether it be something recent in the way of ladies\u2019 hats or a\nstrawberry shortcake. A tight-drawn belt\u2014last relic of his official\nspruceness\u2014made a deep furrow in his circumference. The Captain\u2019s shoes\nwere buttonless. In a smothered bass he cursed his star of ill-luck. Murray, at his side, was shrunk into his dingy and ragged suit of blue\nserge. His hat was pulled low; he sat quiet and a little indistinct,\nlike some ghost that had been dispossessed.", "words": 264}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m hungry,\u201d growled the Captain\u2014\u201cby the top sirloin of the Bull of\nBashan, I\u2019m starving to death. Right now I could eat a Bowery\nrestaurant clear through to the stovepipe in the alley. Can\u2019t you think\nof nothing, Murray? You sit there with your shoulders scrunched up,\ngiving an imitation of Reginald Vanderbilt driving his coach\u2014what good\nare them airs doing you now? Think of some place we can get something\nto chew.\u201d \u201cYou forget, my dear Captain,\u201d said Murray, without moving, \u201cthat our\nlast attempt at dining was at my suggestion.\u201d \u201cYou bet it was,\u201d groaned the Captain, \u201cyou bet your life it was. Have\nyou got any more like that to make\u2014hey?\u201d \u201cI admit we failed,\u201d sighed Murray. \u201cI was sure Malone would be good\nfor one more free lunch after the way he talked baseball with me the\nlast time I spent a nickel in his establishment.\u201d \u201cI had this hand,\u201d said the Captain, extending the unfortunate\nmember\u2014\u201cI had this hand on the drumstick of a turkey and two sardine\nsandwiches when them waiters grabbed us.\u201d \u201cI was within two inches of the olives,\u201d said Murray. \u201cStuffed olives.\nI haven\u2019t tasted one in a year.\u201d \u201cWhat\u2019ll we do?\u201d grumbled the Captain. \u201cWe can\u2019t starve.\u201d \u201cCan\u2019t we?\u201d said Murray quietly. \u201cI\u2019m glad to hear that. I was afraid\nwe could.\u201d \u201cYou wait here,\u201d said the Captain, rising heavily and puffily to his\nfeet. \u201cI\u2019m going to try to make one more turn. You stay here till I\ncome back, Murray. I won\u2019t be over half an hour. If I turn the trick\nI\u2019ll come back flush.\u201d", "words": 268}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He made some elephantine attempts at smartening his appearance. He gave\nhis fiery mustache a heavenward twist; he dragged into sight a pair of\nblack-edged cuffs, deepened the crease in his middle by tightening his\nbelt another hole, and set off, jaunty as a zoo rhinoceros, across the\nsouth end of the park. When he was out of sight Murray also left the park, hurrying swiftly\neastward. He stopped at a building whose steps were flanked by two\ngreen lights. \u201cA police captain named Maroney,\u201d he said to the desk sergeant, \u201cwas\ndismissed from the force after being tried under charges three years\nago. I believe sentence was suspended. Is this man wanted now by the\npolice?\u201d \u201cWhy are ye asking?\u201d inquired the sergeant, with a frown. \u201cI thought there might be a reward standing,\u201d explained Murray, easily.\n\u201cI know the man well. He seems to be keeping himself pretty shady at\npresent. I could lay my hands on him at any time. If there should be a\nreward\u2014\u201d \u201cThere\u2019s no reward,\u201d interrupted the sergeant, shortly. \u201cThe man\u2019s not\nwanted. And neither are ye. So, get out. Ye are frindly with um, and ye\nwould be selling um. Out with ye quick, or I\u2019ll give ye a start.\u201d Murray gazed at the officer with serene and virtuous dignity. \u201cI would be simply doing my duty as a citizen and gentleman,\u201d he said,\nseverely, \u201cif I could assist the law in laying hold of one of its\noffenders.\u201d Murray hurried back to the bench in the park. He folded his arms and\nshrank within his clothes to his ghost-like presentment.", "words": 269}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Ten minutes afterward the Captain arrived at the rendezvous, windy and\nthunderous as a dog-day in Kansas. His collar had been torn away; his\nstraw hat had been twisted and battered; his shirt with ox-blood\nstripes split to the waist. And from head to knee he was drenched with\nsome vile and ignoble greasy fluid that loudly proclaimed to the nose\nits component leaven of garlic and kitchen stuff. \u201cFor Heaven\u2019s sake, Captain,\u201d sniffed Murray, \u201cI doubt that I would\nhave waited for you if I had suspected you were so desperate as to\nresort to swill barrels. I\u201d\u2014 \u201cCheese it,\u201d said the Captain, harshly. \u201cI\u2019m not hogging it yet. It\u2019s\nall on the outside. I went around on Essex and proposed marriage to\nthat Catrina that\u2019s got the fruit shop there. Now, that business could\nbe built up. She\u2019s a peach as far as a Dago could be. I thought I had\nthat senoreena mashed sure last week. But look what she done to me! I\nguess I got too fresh. Well there\u2019s another scheme queered.\u201d \u201cYou don\u2019t mean to say,\u201d said Murray, with infinite contempt, \u201cthat you\nwould have married that woman to help yourself out of your disgraceful\ntroubles!\u201d \u201cMe?\u201d said the Captain. \u201cI\u2019d marry the Empress of China for one bowl of\nchop suey. I\u2019d commit murder for a plate of beef stew. I\u2019d steal a\nwafer from a waif. I\u2019d be a Mormon for a bowl of chowder.\u201d \u201cI think,\u201d said Murray, resting his head on his hands, \u201cthat I would\nplay Judas for the price of one drink of whiskey. For thirty pieces of\nsilver I would\u201d\u2014 \u201cOh, come now!\u201d exclaimed the Captain in dismay. \u201cYou wouldn\u2019t do that,\nMurray! I always thought that Kike\u2019s squeal on his boss was about the\nlowest-down play that ever happened. A man that gives his friend away\nis worse than a pirate.\u201d", "words": 315}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Through the park stepped a large man scanning the benches where the\nelectric light fell. \u201cIs that you, Mac?\u201d he said, halting before the derelicts. His diamond\nstickpin dazzled. His diamond-studded fob chain assisted. He was big\nand smooth and well fed. \u201cYes, I see it\u2019s you,\u201d he continued. \u201cThey\ntold me at Mike\u2019s that I might find you over here. Let me see you a few\nminutes, Mac.\u201d The Captain lifted himself with a grunt of alacrity. If Charlie\nFinnegan had come down in the bottomless pit to seek him there must be\nsomething doing. Charlie guided him by an arm into a patch of shadow. \u201cYou know, Mac,\u201d he said, \u201cthey\u2019re trying Inspector Pickering on graft\ncharges.\u201d \u201cHe was my inspector,\u201d said the Captain. \u201cO\u2019Shea wants the job,\u201d went on Finnegan. \u201cHe must have it. It\u2019s for\nthe good of the organization. Pickering must go under. Your testimony\nwill do it. He was your \u2018man higher up\u2019 when you were on the force. His\nshare of the boodle passed through your hands. You must go on the stand\nand testify against him.\u201d \u201cHe was\u201d\u2014began the Captain. \u201cWait a minute,\u201d said Finnegan. A bundle of yellowish stuff came out of\nhis inside pocket. \u201cFive hundred dollars in it for you. Two-fifty on\nthe spot, and the rest\u201d\u2014 \u201cHe was my friend, I say,\u201d finished the Captain. \u201cI\u2019ll see you and the\ngang, and the city, and the party in the flames of Hades before I\u2019ll\ntake the stand against Dan Pickering. I\u2019m down and out; but I\u2019m no\ntraitor to a man that\u2019s been my friend.\u201d The Captain\u2019s voice rose and\nboomed like a split trombone. \u201cGet out of this park, Charlie Finnegan,\nwhere us thieves and tramps and boozers are your betters; and take your\ndirty money with you.\u201d Finnegan drifted out by another walk. The Captain returned to his seat.", "words": 313}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI couldn\u2019t avoid hearing,\u201d said Murray, drearily. \u201cI think you are the\nbiggest fool I ever saw.\u201d \u201cWhat would you have done?\u201d asked the Captain. \u201cNailed Pickering to the cross,\u201d said Murray. \u201cSonny,\u201d said the Captain, huskily and without heat. \u201cYou and me are\ndifferent. New York is divided into two parts\u2014above Forty-second\nstreet, and below Fourteenth. You come from the other part. We both act\naccording to our lights.\u201d An illuminated clock above the trees retailed the information that it\nlacked the half hour of twelve. Both men rose from the bench and moved\naway together as if seized by the same idea. They left the park, struck\nthrough a narrow cross street, and came into Broadway, at this hour as\ndark, echoing and de-peopled as a byway in Pompeii. Northward they turned; and a policeman who glanced at their unkempt and\nslinking figures withheld the attention and suspicion that he would\nhave granted them at any other hour and place. For on every street in\nthat part of the city other unkempt and slinking figures were shuffling\nand hurrying toward a converging point\u2014a point that is marked by no\nmonument save that groove on the pavement worn by tens of thousands of\nwaiting feet. At Ninth street a tall man wearing an opera hat alighted from a\nBroadway car and turned his face westward. But he saw Murray, pounced\nupon him and dragged him under a street light. The Captain lumbered\nslowly to the corner, like a wounded bear, and waited, growling. \u201cJerry!\u201d cried the hatted one. \u201cHow fortunate! I was to begin a search\nfor you to-morrow. The old gentleman has capitulated. You\u2019re to be\nrestored to favor. Congratulate you. Come to the office in the morning\nand get all the money you want. I\u2019ve liberal instructions in that\nrespect.\u201d \u201cAnd the little matrimonial arrangement?\u201d said Murray, with his head\nturned sidewise.", "words": 315}, {"story": 86, "title": "ACCORDING TO THEIR LIGHTS", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy\u2014er\u2014well, of course, your uncle understands\u2014expects that the\nengagement between you and Miss Vanderhurst shall be\u201d\u2014 \u201cGood night,\u201d said Murray, moving away. \u201cYou madman!\u201d cried the other, catching his arm. \u201cWould you give up two\nmillions on account of\u201d\u2014 \u201cDid you ever see her nose, old man?\u201d asked Murray, solemnly. \u201cBut, listen to reason, Jerry. Miss Vanderhurst is an heiress, and\u201d\u2014 \u201cDid you ever see it?\u201d \u201cYes, I admit that her nose isn\u2019t\u201d\u2014 \u201cGood night!\u201d said Murray. \u201cMy friend is waiting for me. I am quoting\nhim when I authorize you to report that there is \u2018nothing doing.\u2019 Good\nnight.\u201d A wriggling line of waiting men extended from a door in Tenth street\nfar up Broadway, on the outer edge of the pavement. The Captain and\nMurray fell in at the tail of the quivering millipede. \u201cTwenty feet longer than it was last night,\u201d said Murray, looking up at\nhis measuring angle of Grace Church. \u201cHalf an hour,\u201d growled the Captain, \u201cbefore we get our punk.\u201d The city clocks began to strike 12; the Bread Line moved forward\nslowly, its leathern feet sliding on the stones with the sound of a\nhissing serpent, as they who had lived according to their lights closed\nup in the rear.", "words": 207}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201c_The knights are dead;\nTheir swords are rust.\nExcept a few who have to hust-\nLe all the time\nTo raise the dust._\u201d Dear Reader: It was summertime. The sun glared down upon the city with\npitiless ferocity. It is difficult for the sun to be ferocious and\nexhibit compunction simultaneously. The heat was\u2014oh, bother\nthermometers!\u2014who cares for standard measures, anyhow? It was so hot\nthat\u2014 The roof gardens put on so many extra waiters that you could hope to\nget your gin fizz now\u2014as soon as all the other people got theirs. The\nhospitals were putting in extra cots for bystanders. For when little,\nwoolly dogs loll their tongues out and say \u201cwoof, woof!\u201d at the fleas\nthat bite \u2019em, and nervous old black bombazine ladies screech \u201cMad\ndog!\u201d and policemen begin to shoot, somebody is going to get hurt. The\nman from Pompton, N.J., who always wears an overcoat in July, had\nturned up in a Broadway hotel drinking hot Scotches and enjoying his\nannual ray from the calcium. Philanthropists were petitioning the\nLegislature to pass a bill requiring builders to make tenement\nfire-escapes more commodious, so that families might die all together\nof the heat instead of one or two at a time. So many men were telling\nyou about the number of baths they took each day that you wondered how\nthey got along after the real lessee of the apartment came back to town\nand thanked \u2019em for taking such good care of it. The young man who\ncalled loudly for cold beef and beer in the restaurant, protesting that\nroast pullet and Burgundy was really too heavy for such weather,\nblushed when he met your eye, for you had heard him all winter calling,\nin modest tones, for the same ascetic viands. Soup, pocketbooks, shirt\nwaists, actors and baseball excuses grew thinner. Yes, it was\nsummertime.", "words": 312}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A man stood at Thirty-fourth street waiting for a downtown car. A man\nof forty, gray-haired, pink-faced, keen, nervous, plainly dressed, with\na harassed look around the eyes. He wiped his forehead and laughed\nloudly when a fat man with an outing look stopped and spoke with him. \u201cNo, siree,\u201d he shouted with defiance and scorn. \u201cNone of your old\nmosquito-haunted swamps and skyscraper mountains without elevators for\nme. When I want to get away from hot weather I know how to do it. New\nYork, sir, is the finest summer resort in the country. Keep in the\nshade and watch your diet, and don\u2019t get too far away from an electric\nfan. Talk about your Adirondacks and your Catskills! There\u2019s more solid\ncomfort in the borough of Manhattan than in all the rest of the country\ntogether. No, siree! No tramping up perpendicular cliffs and being\nwaked up at 4 in the morning by a million flies, and eating canned\ngoods straight from the city for me. Little old New York will take a\nfew select summer boarders; comforts and conveniences of homes\u2014that\u2019s\nthe ad. that I answer every time.\u201d \u201cYou need a vacation,\u201d said the fat man, looking closely at the other.\n\u201cYou haven\u2019t been away from town in years. Better come with me for two\nweeks, anyhow. The trout in the Beaverkill are jumping at anything now\nthat looks like a fly. Harding writes me that he landed a three-pound\nbrown last week.\u201d", "words": 246}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cNonsense!\u201d cried the other man. \u201cGo ahead, if you like, and boggle\naround in rubber boots wearing yourself out trying to catch fish. When\nI want one I go to a cool restaurant and order it. I laugh at you\nfellows whenever I think of you hustling around in the heat in the\ncountry thinking you are having a good time. For me Father\nKnickerbocker\u2019s little improved farm with the big shady lane running\nthrough the middle of it.\u201d The fat man sighed over his friend and went his way. The man who\nthought New York was the greatest summer resort in the country boarded\na car and went buzzing down to his office. On the way he threw away his\nnewspaper and looked up at a ragged patch of sky above the housetops. \u201cThree pounds!\u201d he muttered, absently. \u201cAnd Harding isn\u2019t a liar. I\nbelieve, if I could\u2014but it\u2019s impossible\u2014they\u2019ve got to have another\nmonth\u2014another month at least.\u201d In his office the upholder of urban midsummer joys dived, headforemost,\ninto the swimming pool of business. Adkins, his clerk, came and added a\nspray of letters, memoranda and telegrams. At 5 o\u2019clock in the afternoon the busy man leaned back in his office\nchair, put his feet on the desk and mused aloud: \u201cI wonder what kind of bait Harding used.\u201d She was all in white that day; and thereby Compton lost a bet to\nGaines. Compton had wagered she would wear light blue, for she knew\nthat was his favorite color, and Compton was a millionaire\u2019s son, and\nthat almost laid him open to the charge of betting on a sure thing. But\nwhite was her choice, and Gaines held up his head with twenty-five\u2019s\nlordly air.", "words": 288}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The little summer hotel in the mountains had a lively crowd that year.\nThere were two or three young college men and a couple of artists and a\nyoung naval officer on one side. On the other there were enough\nbeauties among the young ladies for the correspondent of a society\npaper to refer to them as a \u201cbevy.\u201d But the moon among the stars was\nMary Sewell. Each one of the young men greatly desired to arrange\nmatters so that he could pay her millinery bills, and fix the furnace,\nand have her do away with the \u201cSewell\u201d part of her name forever. Those\nwho could stay only a week or two went away hinting at pistols and\nblighted hearts. But Compton stayed like the mountains themselves, for\nhe could afford it. And Gaines stayed because he was a fighter and\nwasn\u2019t afraid of millionaire\u2019s sons, and\u2014well, he adored the country. \u201cWhat do you think, Miss Mary?\u201d he said once. \u201cI knew a duffer in New\nYork who claimed to like it in the summer time. Said you could keep\ncooler there than you could in the woods. Wasn\u2019t he an awful silly? I\ndon\u2019t think I could breathe on Broadway after the 1st of June.\u201d \u201cMamma was thinking of going back week after next,\u201d said Miss Mary with\na lovely frown. \u201cBut when you think of it,\u201d said Gaines, \u201cthere are lots of jolly\nplaces in town in the summer. The roof gardens, you know, and\nthe\u2014er\u2014the roof gardens.\u201d Deepest blue was the lake that day\u2014the day when they had the mock\ntournament, and the men rode clumsy farm horses around in a glade in\nthe woods and caught curtain rings on the end of a lance. Such fun!", "words": 291}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Cool and dry as the finest wine came the breath of the shadowed forest.\nThe valley below was a vision seen through an opal haze. A white mist\nfrom hidden falls blurred the green of a hand\u2019s breadth of tree tops\nhalf-way down the gorge. Youth made merry hand-in-hand with young\nsummer. Nothing on Broadway like that. The villagers gathered to see the city folks pursue their mad drollery.\nThe woods rang with the laughter of pixies and naiads and sprites.\nGaines caught most of the rings. His was the privilege to crown the\nqueen of the tournament. He was the conquering knight\u2014as far as the\nrings went. On his arm he wore a white scarf. Compton wore light blue.\nShe had declared her preference for blue, but she wore white that day. Gaines looked about for the queen to crown her. He heard her merry\nlaugh, as if from the clouds. She had slipped away and climbed Chimney\nRock, a little granite bluff, and stood there, a white fairy among the\nlaurels, fifty feet above their heads. Instantly he and Compton accepted the implied challenge. The bluff was\neasily mounted at the rear, but the front offered small hold to hand or\nfoot. Each man quickly selected his route and began to climb. A\ncrevice, a bush, a slight projection, a vine or tree branch\u2014all of\nthese were aids that counted in the race. It was all foolery\u2014there was\nno stake; but there was youth in it, cross reader, and light hearts,\nand something else that Miss Clay writes so charmingly about. Gaines gave a great tug at the root of a laurel and pulled himself to\nMiss Mary\u2019s feet. On his arm he carried the wreath of roses; and while\nthe villagers and summer boarders screamed and applauded below he\nplaced it on the queen\u2019s brow. \u201cYou are a gallant knight,\u201d said Miss Mary.", "words": 316}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cIf I could be your true knight always,\u201d began Gaines, but Miss Mary\nlaughed him dumb, for Compton scrambled over the edge of the rock one\nminute behind time. What a twilight that was when they drove back to the hotel! The opal of\nthe valley turned slowly to purple, the dark woods framed the lake as a\nmirror, the tonic air stirred the very soul in one. The first pale\nstars came out over the mountain tops where yet a faint glow of\u2014 \u201cI beg your pardon, Mr. Gaines,\u201d said Adkins. The man who believed New York to be the finest summer resort in the\nworld opened his eyes and kicked over the mucilage bottle on his desk. \u201cI\u2014I believe I was asleep,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s the heat,\u201d said Adkins. \u201cIt\u2019s something awful in the city these\u201d\u2014 \u201cNonsense!\u201d said the other. \u201cThe city beats the country ten to one in\nsummer. Fools go out tramping in muddy brooks and wear themselves out\ntrying to catch little fish as long as your finger. Stay in town and\nkeep comfortable\u2014that\u2019s my idea.\u201d \u201cSome letters just came,\u201d said Adkins. \u201cI thought you might like to\nglance at them before you go.\u201d Let us look over his shoulder and read just a few lines of one of them:", "words": 215}, {"story": 87, "title": "A MIDSUMMER KNIGHT\u2019S DREAM", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "My Dear, Dear Husband: Just received your letter ordering us to stay\nanother month. \u2026 Rita\u2019s cough is almost gone. \u2026 Johnny has simply gone\nwild like a little Indian \u2026 Will be the making of both children \u2026 work\nso hard, and I know that your business can hardly afford to keep us\nhere so long \u2026 best man that ever \u2026 you always pretend that you like\nthe city in summer \u2026 trout fishing that you used to be so fond of \u2026 and\nall to keep us well and happy \u2026 come to you if it were not doing the\nbabies so much good. \u2026 I stood last evening on Chimney Rock in exactly\nthe same spot where I was when you put the wreath of roses on my head \u2026\nthrough all the world \u2026 when you said you would be my true knight \u2026\nfifteen years ago, dear, just think! \u2026 have always been that to me \u2026\never and ever, Mary. The man who said he thought New York the finest summer resort in the\ncountry dropped into a caf\u00e9 on his way home and had a glass of beer\nunder an electric fan. \u201cWonder what kind of a fly old Harding used,\u201d he said to himself.", "words": 213}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run\ncrazy and broken themselves into small strips called \u201cplaces.\u201d These\n\u201cplaces\u201d make strange angles and curves. One street crosses itself a\ntime or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this\nstreet. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas\nshould, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back,\nwithout a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling,\nhunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch\nattics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing\ndish or two from Sixth avenue, and became a \u201ccolony.\u201d At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their\nstudio. \u201cJohnsy\u201d was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other\nfrom California. They had met at the _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ of an Eighth street\n\u201cDelmonico\u2019s,\u201d and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop\nsleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors\ncalled Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there\nwith his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly,\nsmiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the\nmaze of the narrow and moss-grown \u201cplaces.\u201d Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A\nmite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was\nhardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But\nJohnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron\nbedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank\nside of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy,\ngray eyebrow.", "words": 310}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cShe has one chance in\u2014let us say, ten,\u201d he said, as he shook down the\nmercury in his clinical thermometer. \u201cAnd that chance is for her to\nwant to live. This way people have of lining-up on the side of the\nundertaker makes the entire pharmacopeia look silly. Your little lady\nhas made up her mind that she\u2019s not going to get well. Has she anything\non her mind?\u201d \u201cShe\u2014she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day,\u201d said Sue. \u201cPaint?\u2014bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking about twice\u2014a\nman, for instance?\u201d \u201cA man?\u201d said Sue, with a jew\u2019s-harp twang in her voice. \u201cIs a man\nworth\u2014but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind.\u201d \u201cWell, it is the weakness, then,\u201d said the doctor. \u201cI will do all that\nscience, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish.\nBut whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral\nprocession I subtract 50 per cent. from the curative power of\nmedicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter\nstyles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for\nher, instead of one in ten.\u201d After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a\nJapanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy\u2019s room with\nher drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her\nface toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a\nmagazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing\npictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their\nway to Literature.", "words": 289}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a\nmonocle on the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low\nsound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy\u2019s eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and\ncounting\u2014counting backward. \u201cTwelve,\u201d she said, and a little later \u201celeven;\u201d and then \u201cten,\u201d and\n\u201cnine;\u201d and then \u201ceight\u201d and \u201cseven,\u201d almost together. Sue looked solicitously out the window. What was there to count? There\nwas only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the\nbrick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed\nat the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of\nautumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton\nbranches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. \u201cWhat is it, dear?\u201d asked Sue. \u201cSix,\u201d said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. \u201cThey\u2019re falling faster now.\nThree days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to\ncount them. But now it\u2019s easy. There goes another one. There are only\nfive left now.\u201d \u201cFive what, dear. Tell your Sudie.\u201d \u201cLeaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I\u2019ve\nknown that for three days. Didn\u2019t the doctor tell you?\u201d", "words": 222}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cOh, I never heard of such nonsense,\u201d complained Sue, with magnificent\nscorn. \u201cWhat have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you\nused to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don\u2019t be a goosey. Why,\nthe doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real\nsoon were\u2014let\u2019s see exactly what he said\u2014he said the chances were ten\nto one! Why, that\u2019s almost as good a chance as we have in New York when\nwe ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take\nsome broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell\nthe editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork\nchops for her greedy self.\u201d \u201cYou needn\u2019t get any more wine,\u201d said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed\nout the window. \u201cThere goes another. No, I don\u2019t want any broth. That\nleaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark.\nThen I\u2019ll go, too.\u201d \u201cJohnsy, dear,\u201d said Sue, bending over her, \u201cwill you promise me to\nkeep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done\nworking? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light,\nor I would draw the shade down.\u201d \u201cCouldn\u2019t you draw in the other room?\u201d asked Johnsy, coldly. \u201cI\u2019d rather be here by you,\u201d said Sue. \u201cBesides I don\u2019t want you to\nkeep looking at those silly ivy leaves.\u201d \u201cTell me as soon as you have finished,\u201d said Johnsy, closing her eyes,\nand lying white and still as a fallen statue, \u201cbecause I want to see\nthe last one fall. I\u2019m tired of waiting. I\u2019m tired of thinking. I want\nto turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just\nlike one of those poor, tired leaves.\u201d", "words": 312}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cTry to sleep,\u201d said Sue. \u201cI must call Behrman up to be my model for\nthe old hermit miner. I\u2019ll not be gone a minute. Don\u2019t try to move\n\u2019till I come back.\u201d Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them.\nHe was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo\u2019s Moses beard curling down\nfrom the head of a satyr along the body of an imp. Behrman was a\nfailure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting\nnear enough to touch the hem of his Mistress\u2019s robe. He had been always\nabout to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several\nyears he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of\ncommerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to\nthose young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a\nprofessional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming\nmasterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed\nterribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial\nmastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio\nabove. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly\nlighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that\nhad been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line\nof the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy\u2019s fancy, and how she feared\nshe would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away when\nher slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt\nand derision for such idiotic imaginings.", "words": 291}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cVass!\u201d he cried. \u201cIs dere people in de world mit der foolishness to\ndie because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard\nof such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool\nhermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der\nprain of her? Ach, dot poor lettle Miss Johnsy.\u201d \u201cShe is very ill and weak,\u201d said Sue, \u201cand the fever has left her mind\nmorbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do\nnot care to pose for me, you needn\u2019t. But I think you are a horrid\nold\u2014old flibbertigibbet.\u201d \u201cYou are just like a woman!\u201d yelled Behrman. \u201cWho said I will not bose?\nGo on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I\nam ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as\nMiss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve\nshall all go away. Gott! yes.\u201d Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down\nto the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there\nthey peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked\nat each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain\nwas falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took\nhis seat as the hermit-miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour\u2019s sleep the next morning she found Johnsy\nwith dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. \u201cPull it up; I want to see,\u201d she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed.", "words": 287}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had\nendured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the\nbrick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last on the vine. Still dark green\nnear its stem, but with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of\ndissolution and decay, it hung bravely from a branch some twenty feet\nabove the ground. \u201cIt is the last one,\u201d said Johnsy. \u201cI thought it would surely fall\nduring the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall\ndie at the same time.\u201d \u201cDear, dear!\u201d said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow,\n\u201cthink of me, if you won\u2019t think of yourself. What would I do?\u201d But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a\nsoul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The\nfancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that\nbound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the\nlone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the\ncoming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain\nstill beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch\neaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the\nshade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue,\nwho was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.", "words": 273}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve been a bad girl, Sudie,\u201d said Johnsy. \u201cSomething has made that\nlast leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want\nto die. You may bring me a little broth now, and some milk with a\nlittle port in it, and\u2014no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack\nsome pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook.\u201d An hour later she said. \u201cSudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples.\u201d The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the\nhallway as he left. \u201cEven chances,\u201d said the doctor, taking Sue\u2019s thin, shaking hand in\nhis. \u201cWith good nursing you\u2019ll win. And now I must see another case I\nhave downstairs. Behrman, his name is\u2014some kind of an artist, I\nbelieve. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is\nacute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to\nbe made more comfortable.\u201d The next day the doctor said to Sue: \u201cShe\u2019s out of danger. You\u2019ve won.\nNutrition and care now\u2014that\u2019s all.\u201d And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly\nknitting a very blue and very useless woolen shoulder scarf, and put\none arm around her, pillows and all.", "words": 223}, {"story": 88, "title": "THE LAST LEAF", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI have something to tell you, white mouse,\u201d she said. \u201cMr. Behrman\ndied of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The\njanitor found him on the morning of the first day in his room\ndownstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through\nand icy cold. They couldn\u2019t imagine where he had been on such a\ndreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a\nladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered\nbrushes, and a palette with green and yellow colors mixed on it,\nand\u2014look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn\u2019t\nyou wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah,\ndarling, it\u2019s Behrman\u2019s masterpiece\u2014he painted it there the night that\nthe last leaf fell.\u201d", "words": 139}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "One evening when Andy Donovan went to dinner at his Second Avenue\nboarding-house, Mrs. Scott introduced him to a new boarder, a young\nlady, Miss Conway. Miss Conway was small and unobtrusive. She wore a\nplain, snuffy-brown dress, and bestowed her interest, which seemed\nlanguid, upon her plate. She lifted her diffident eyelids and shot one\nperspicuous, judicial glance at Mr. Donovan, politely murmured his\nname, and returned to her mutton. Mr. Donovan bowed with the grace and\nbeaming smile that were rapidly winning for him social, business and\npolitical advancement, and erased the snuffy-brown one from the tablets\nof his consideration. Two weeks later Andy was sitting on the front steps enjoying his cigar.\nThere was a soft rustle behind and above him, and Andy turned his\nhead\u2014and had his head turned. Just coming out the door was Miss Conway. She wore a night-black dress\nof _cr\u00eape de_\u2014_cr\u00eape de_\u2014oh, this thin black goods. Her hat was black,\nand from it drooped and fluttered an ebon veil, filmy as a spider\u2019s\nweb. She stood on the top step and drew on black silk gloves. Not a\nspeck of white or a spot of color about her dress anywhere. Her rich\ngolden hair was drawn, with scarcely a ripple, into a shining, smooth\nknot low on her neck. Her face was plain rather than pretty, but it was\nnow illuminated and made almost beautiful by her large gray eyes that\ngazed above the houses across the street into the sky with an\nexpression of the most appealing sadness and melancholy.", "words": 259}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Gather the idea, girls\u2014all black, you know, with the preference for\n_cr\u00eape de_\u2014oh, _cr\u00eape de Chine_\u2014that\u2019s it. All black, and that sad,\nfaraway look, and the hair shining under the black veil (you have to be\na blonde, of course), and try to look as if, although your young life\nhad been blighted just as it was about to give a hop-skip-and-a-jump\nover the threshold of life, a walk in the park might do you good, and\nbe sure to happen out the door at the right moment, and\u2014oh, it\u2019ll fetch\n\u2019em every time. But it\u2019s fierce, now, how cynical I am, ain\u2019t it?\u2014to\ntalk about mourning costumes this way. Mr. Donovan suddenly reinscribed Miss Conway upon the tablets of his\nconsideration. He threw away the remaining inch-and-a-quarter of his\ncigar, that would have been good for eight minutes yet, and quickly\nshifted his center of gravity to his low cut patent leathers. \u201cIt\u2019s a fine, clear evening, Miss Conway,\u201d he said; and if the Weather\nBureau could have heard the confident emphasis of his tones it would\nhave hoisted the square white signal, and nailed it to the mast. \u201cTo them that has the heart to enjoy it, it is, Mr. Donovan,\u201d said Miss\nConway, with a sigh. Mr. Donovan, in his heart, cursed fair weather. Heartless weather! It\nshould hail and blow and snow to be consonant with the mood of Miss\nConway. \u201cI hope none of your relatives\u2014I hope you haven\u2019t sustained a loss?\u201d\nventured Mr. Donovan. \u201cDeath has claimed,\u201d said Miss Conway, hesitating\u2014\u201cnot a relative, but\none who\u2014but I will not intrude my grief upon you, Mr. Donovan.\u201d \u201cIntrude?\u201d protested Mr. Donovan. \u201cWhy, say, Miss Conway, I\u2019d be\ndelighted, that is, I\u2019d be sorry\u2014I mean I\u2019m sure nobody could\nsympathize with you truer than I would.\u201d Miss Conway smiled a little smile. And oh, it was sadder than her\nexpression in repose.", "words": 316}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2018Laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and they give you the\nlaugh,\u2019\u201d she quoted. \u201cI have learned that, Mr. Donovan. I have no\nfriends or acquaintances in this city. But you have been kind to me. I\nappreciate it highly.\u201d He had passed her the pepper twice at the table. \u201cIt\u2019s tough to be alone in New York\u2014that\u2019s a cinch,\u201d said Mr. Donovan.\n\u201cBut, say\u2014whenever this little old town does loosen up and get friendly\nit goes the limit. Say you took a little stroll in the park, Miss\nConway\u2014don\u2019t you think it might chase away some of your mullygrubs? And\nif you\u2019d allow me\u2014\u201d \u201cThanks, Mr. Donovan. I\u2019d be pleased to accept of your escort if you\nthink the company of one whose heart is filled with gloom could be\nanyways agreeable to you.\u201d Through the open gates of the iron-railed, old, downtown park, where\nthe elect once took the air, they strolled, and found a quiet bench. There is this difference between the grief of youth and that of old\nage: youth\u2019s burden is lightened by as much of it as another shares;\nold age may give and give, but the sorrow remains the same. \u201cHe was my fiance,\u201d confided Miss Conway, at the end of an hour. \u201cWe\nwere going to be married next spring. I don\u2019t want you to think that I\nam stringing you, Mr. Donovan, but he was a real Count. He had an\nestate and a castle in Italy. Count Fernando Mazzini was his name. I\nnever saw the beat of him for elegance. Papa objected, of course, and\nonce we eloped, but papa overtook us, and took us back. I thought sure\npapa and Fernando would fight a duel. Papa has a livery business\u2014in\nP\u2019kipsee, you know.\u201d", "words": 297}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cFinally, papa came \u2019round, all right, and said we might be married\nnext spring. Fernando showed him proofs of his title and wealth, and\nthen went over to Italy to get the castle fixed up for us. Papa\u2019s very\nproud, and when Fernando wanted to give me several thousand dollars for\nmy trousseau he called him down something awful. He wouldn\u2019t even let\nme take a ring or any presents from him. And when Fernando sailed I\ncame to the city and got a position as cashier in a candy store.\u201d \u201cThree days ago I got a letter from Italy, forwarded from P\u2019kipsee,\nsaying that Fernando had been killed in a gondola accident.\u201d \u201cThat is why I am in mourning. My heart, Mr. Donovan, will remain\nforever in his grave. I guess I am poor company, Mr. Donovan, but I\ncannot take any interest in no one. I should not care to keep you from\ngayety and your friends who can smile and entertain you. Perhaps you\nwould prefer to walk back to the house?\u201d Now, girls, if you want to observe a young man hustle out after a pick\nand shovel, just tell him that your heart is in some other fellow\u2019s\ngrave. Young men are grave-robbers by nature. Ask any widow. Something\nmust be done to restore that missing organ to weeping angels in _cr\u00eape\nde Chine_. Dead men certainly get the worst of it from all sides. \u201cI\u2019m awfully sorry,\u201d said Mr. Donovan, gently. \u201cNo, we won\u2019t walk back\nto the house just yet. And don\u2019t say you haven\u2019t no friends in this\ncity, Miss Conway. I\u2019m awful sorry, and I want you to believe I\u2019m your\nfriend, and that I\u2019m awful sorry.\u201d", "words": 286}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019ve got his picture here in my locket,\u201d said Miss Conway, after\nwiping her eyes with her handkerchief. \u201cI never showed it to anybody;\nbut I will to you, Mr. Donovan, because I believe you to be a true\nfriend.\u201d Mr. Donovan gazed long and with much interest at the photograph in the\nlocket that Miss Conway opened for him. The face of Count Mazzini was\none to command interest. It was a smooth, intelligent, bright, almost a\nhandsome face\u2014the face of a strong, cheerful man who might well be a\nleader among his fellows. \u201cI have a larger one, framed, in my room,\u201d said Miss Conway. \u201cWhen we\nreturn I will show you that. They are all I have to remind me of\nFernando. But he ever will be present in my heart, that\u2019s a sure\nthing.\u201d A subtle task confronted Mr. Donovan,\u2014that of supplanting the\nunfortunate Count in the heart of Miss Conway. This his admiration for\nher determined him to do. But the magnitude of the undertaking did not\nseem to weigh upon his spirits. The sympathetic but cheerful friend was\nthe r\u00f4le he essayed; and he played it so successfully that the next\nhalf-hour found them conversing pensively across two plates of\nice-cream, though yet there was no diminution of the sadness in Miss\nConway\u2019s large gray eyes. Before they parted in the hall that evening she ran upstairs and\nbrought down the framed photograph wrapped lovingly in a white silk\nscarf. Mr. Donovan surveyed it with inscrutable eyes. \u201cHe gave me this the night he left for Italy,\u201d said Miss Conway. \u201cI had\nthe one for the locket made from this.\u201d \u201cA fine-looking man,\u201d said Mr. Donovan, heartily. \u201cHow would it suit\nyou, Miss Conway, to give me the pleasure of your company to Coney next\nSunday afternoon?\u201d", "words": 303}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A month later they announced their engagement to Mrs. Scott and the\nother boarders. Miss Conway continued to wear black. A week after the announcement the two sat on the same bench in the\ndowntown park, while the fluttering leaves of the trees made a dim\nkinetoscopic picture of them in the moonlight. But Donovan had worn a\nlook of abstracted gloom all day. He was so silent to-night that love\u2019s\nlips could not keep back any longer the questions that love\u2019s heart\npropounded. \u201cWhat\u2019s the matter, Andy, you are so solemn and grouchy to-night?\u201d \u201cNothing, Maggie.\u201d \u201cI know better. Can\u2019t I tell? You never acted this way before. What is\nit?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s nothing much, Maggie.\u201d \u201cYes it is; and I want to know. I\u2019ll bet it\u2019s some other girl you are\nthinking about. All right. Why don\u2019t you go get her if you want her?\nTake your arm away, if you please.\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll tell you then,\u201d said Andy, wisely, \u201cbut I guess you won\u2019t\nunderstand it exactly. You\u2019ve heard of Mike Sullivan, haven\u2019t you? \u2018Big\nMike\u2019 Sullivan, everybody calls him.\u201d \u201cNo, I haven\u2019t,\u201d said Maggie. \u201cAnd I don\u2019t want to, if he makes you act\nlike this. Who is he?\u201d \u201cHe\u2019s the biggest man in New York,\u201d said Andy, almost reverently. \u201cHe\ncan about do anything he wants to with Tammany or any other old thing\nin the political line. He\u2019s a mile high and as broad as East River. You\nsay anything against Big Mike, and you\u2019ll have a million men on your\ncollarbone in about two seconds. Why, he made a visit over to the old\ncountry awhile back, and the kings took to their holes like rabbits.", "words": 281}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWell, Big Mike\u2019s a friend of mine. I ain\u2019t more than deuce-high in the\ndistrict as far as influence goes, but Mike\u2019s as good a friend to a\nlittle man, or a poor man as he is to a big one. I met him to-day on\nthe Bowery, and what do you think he does? Comes up and shakes hands.\n\u2018Andy,\u2019 says he, \u2018I\u2019ve been keeping cases on you. You\u2019ve been putting\nin some good licks over on your side of the street, and I\u2019m proud of\nyou. What\u2019ll you take to drink?\u201d He takes a cigar, and I take a\nhighball. I told him I was going to get married in two weeks. \u2018Andy,\u2019\nsays he, \u2018send me an invitation, so I\u2019ll keep in mind of it, and I\u2019ll\ncome to the wedding.\u2019 That\u2019s what Big Mike says to me; and he always\ndoes what he says. \u201cYou don\u2019t understand it, Maggie, but I\u2019d have one of my hands cut off\nto have Big Mike Sullivan at our wedding. It would be the proudest day\nof my life. When he goes to a man\u2019s wedding, there\u2019s a guy being\nmarried that\u2019s made for life. Now, that\u2019s why I\u2019m maybe looking sore\nto-night.\u201d \u201cWhy don\u2019t you invite him, then, if he\u2019s so much to the mustard?\u201d said\nMaggie, lightly. \u201cThere\u2019s a reason why I can\u2019t,\u201d said Andy, sadly. \u201cThere\u2019s a reason why\nhe mustn\u2019t be there. Don\u2019t ask me what it is, for I can\u2019t tell you.\u201d \u201cOh, I don\u2019t care,\u201d said Maggie. \u201cIt\u2019s something about politics, of\ncourse. But it\u2019s no reason why you can\u2019t smile at me.\u201d \u201cMaggie,\u201d said Andy, presently, \u201cdo you think as much of me as you did\nof your\u2014as you did of the Count Mazzini?\u201d", "words": 291}, {"story": 89, "title": "THE COUNT AND THE WEDDING GUEST", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "He waited a long time, but Maggie did not reply. And then, suddenly she\nleaned against his shoulder and began to cry\u2014to cry and shake with\nsobs, holding his arm tightly, and wetting the _cr\u00eape de Chine_ with\ntears. \u201cThere, there, there!\u201d soothed Andy, putting aside his own trouble.\n\u201cAnd what is it, now?\u201d \u201cAndy,\u201d sobbed Maggie. \u201cI\u2019ve lied to you, and you\u2019ll never marry me, or\nlove me any more. But I feel that I\u2019ve got to tell. Andy, there never\nwas so much as the little finger of a count. I never had a beau in my\nlife. But all the other girls had; and they talked about \u2019em; and that\nseemed to make the fellows like \u2019em more. And, Andy, I look swell in\nblack\u2014you know I do. So I went out to a photograph store and bought\nthat picture, and had a little one made for my locket, and made up all\nthat story about the Count, and about his being killed, so I could wear\nblack. And nobody can love a liar, and you\u2019ll shake me, Andy, and I\u2019ll\ndie for shame. Oh, there never was anybody I liked but you\u2014and that\u2019s\nall.\u201d But instead of being pushed away, she found Andy\u2019s arm folding her\ncloser. She looked up and saw his face cleared and smiling. \u201cCould you\u2014could you forgive me, Andy?\u201d \u201cSure,\u201d said Andy. \u201cIt\u2019s all right about that. Back to the cemetery for\nthe Count. You\u2019ve straightened everything out, Maggie. I was in hopes\nyou would before the wedding-day. Bully girl!\u201d \u201cAndy,\u201d said Maggie, with a somewhat shy smile, after she had been\nthoroughly assured of forgiveness, \u201cdid you believe all that story\nabout the Count?\u201d \u201cWell, not to any large extent,\u201d said Andy, reaching for his cigar\ncase, \u201cbecause it\u2019s Big Mike Sullivan\u2019s picture you\u2019ve got in that\nlocket of yours.\u201d", "words": 309}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The cunning writer will choose an indefinable subject, for he can then\nset down his theory of what it is; and next, at length, his conception\nof what it is not\u2014and lo! his paper is covered. Therefore let us follow\nthe prolix and unmapable trail into that mooted country, Bohemia. Grainger, sub-editor of _Doc\u2019s Magazine_, closed his roll-top desk, put\non his hat, walked into the hall, punched the \u201cdown\u201d button, and waited\nfor the elevator. Grainger\u2019s day had been trying. The chief had tried to ruin the\nmagazine a dozen times by going against Grainger\u2019s ideas for running\nit. A lady whose grandfather had fought with McClellan had brought a\nportfolio of poems in person. Grainger was curator of the Lion\u2019s House of the magazine. That day he\nhad \u201clunched\u201d an Arctic explorer, a short-story writer, and the famous\nconductor of a slaughter-house expos\u00e9. Consequently his mind was in a\nwhirl of icebergs, Maupassant, and trichinosis. But there was a surcease and a recourse; there was Bohemia. He would\nseek distraction there; and, let\u2019s see\u2014he would call by for Mary\nAdrian. Half an hour later he threaded his way like a Brazilian orchid-hunter\nthrough the palm forest in the tiled entrance hall of the \u201cIdealia\u201d\napartment-house. One day the christeners of apartment-houses and the\ncognominators of sleeping-cars will meet, and there will be some\njealous and sanguinary knifing. The clerk breathed Grainger\u2019s name so languidly into the house\ntelephone that it seemed it must surely drop, from sheer inertia, down\nto the janitor\u2019s regions. But, at length, it soared dilatorily up to\nMiss Adrian\u2019s ear. Certainly, Mr. Grainger was to come up immediately.", "words": 274}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A colored maid with an Eliza-crossing-the-ice expression opened the\ndoor of the apartment for him. Grainger walked sideways down the narrow\nhall. A bunch of burnt umber hair and a sea-green eye appeared in the\ncrack of a door. A long, white, undraped arm came out, barring the way. \u201cSo glad you came, Ricky, instead of any of the others,\u201d said the eye.\n\u201cLight a cigarette and give it to me. Going to take me to dinner? Fine.\nGo into the front room till I finish dressing. But don\u2019t sit in your\nusual chair. There\u2019s pie in it\u2014Meringue. Kappelman threw it at Reeves\nlast evening while he was reciting. Sophy has just come to straighten\nup. Is it lit? Thanks. There\u2019s Scotch on the mantel\u2014oh, no, it\nisn\u2019t,\u2014that\u2019s chartreuse. Ask Sophy to find you some. I won\u2019t be long.\u201d Grainger escaped the meringue. As he waited his spirits sank still\nlower. The atmosphere of the room was as vapid as a zephyr wandering\nover a Vesuvian lava-bed. Relics of some feast lay about the room,\nscattered in places where even a prowling cat would have been surprised\nto find them. A straggling cluster of deep red roses in a marmalade jar\nbowed their heads over tobacco ashes and unwashed goblets. A\nchafing-dish stood on the piano; a leaf of sheet music supported a\nstack of sandwiches in a chair. Mary came in, dressed and radiant. Her gown was of that thin, black\nfabric whose name through the change of a single vowel seems to summon\nvisions ranging between the extremes of man\u2019s experience. Spelled with\nan \u201c\u00ea\u201d it belongs to Gallic witchery and diaphanous dreams; with an \u201ca\u201d\nit drapes lamentation and woe. That evening they went to the Caf\u00e9 Andr\u00e9. And, as people would confide\nto you in a whisper that Andr\u00e9\u2019s was the only truly Bohemian restaurant\nin town, it may be well to follow them.", "words": 318}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Andr\u00e9 began his professional career as a waiter in a Bowery ten-cent\neating-house. Had you seen him there you would have called him tough\u2014to\nyourself. Not aloud, for he would have \u201csoaked\u201d you as quickly as he\nwould have soaked his thumb in your coffee. He saved money and started\na basement _table d\u2019h\u00f4te_ in Eighth (or Ninth) Street. One afternoon\nAndr\u00e9 drank too much absinthe. He announced to his startled family that\nhe was the Grand Llama of Thibet, therefore requiring an empty audience\nhall in which to be worshiped. He moved all the tables and chairs from\nthe restaurant into the back yard, wrapped a red table-cloth around\nhimself, and sat on a step-ladder for a throne. When the diners began\nto arrive, madame, in a flurry of despair, laid cloths and ushered\nthem, trembling, outside. Between the tables clothes-lines were\nstretched, bearing the family wash. A party of Bohemia hunters greeted\nthe artistic innovation with shrieks and acclamations of delight. That\nweek\u2019s washing was not taken in for two years. When Andr\u00e9 came to his\nsenses he had the menu printed on stiffly starched cuffs, and served\nthe ices in little wooden tubs. Next he took down his sign and darkened\nthe front of the house. When you went there to dine you fumbled for an\nelectric button and pressed it. A lookout slid open a panel in the\ndoor, looked at you suspiciously, and asked if you were acquainted with\nSenator Herodotus Q. McMilligan, of the Chickasaw Nation. If you were,\nyou were admitted and allowed to dine. If you were not, you were\nadmitted and allowed to dine. There you have one of the abiding\nprinciples of Bohemia. When Andr\u00e9 had accumulated $20,000 he moved\nup-town, near Broadway, in the fierce light that beats upon the\nthrown-down. There we find him and leave him, with customers in pearls\nand automobile veils, striving to catch his excellently graduated nod\nof recognition.", "words": 325}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There is a large round table in the northeast corner of Andr\u00e9\u2019s at\nwhich six can sit. To this table Grainger and Mary Adrian made their\nway. Kappelman and Reeves were already there. And Miss Tooker, who\ndesigned the May cover for the _Ladies\u2019 Notathome Magazine_. And Mrs.\nPothunter, who never drank anything but black and white highballs,\nbeing in mourning for her husband, who\u2014oh, I\u2019ve forgotten what he\ndid\u2014died, like as not. Spaghetti-weary reader, wouldst take one penny-in-the-slot peep into\nthe fair land of Bohemia? Then look; and when you think you have seen\nit you have not. And it is neither thimbleriggery nor astigmatism. The walls of the Caf\u00e9 Andr\u00e9 were covered with original sketches by the\nartists who furnished much of the color and sound of the place. Fair\nwoman furnished the theme for the bulk of the drawings. When you say\n\u201csirens and siphons\u201d you come near to estimating the alliterative\natmosphere of Andr\u00e9\u2019s. First, I want you to meet my friend, Miss Adrian. Miss Tooker and Mrs.\nPothunter you already know. While she tucks in the fingers of her elbow\ngloves you shall have her daguerreotype. So faint and uncertain shall\nthe portrait be: Age, somewhere between twenty-seven and highneck evening dresses.\nCamaraderie in large bunches\u2014whatever the fearful word may mean.\nHabitat\u2014anywhere from Seattle to Tierra del Fuego. Temperament\nuncharted\u2014she let Reeves squeeze her hand after he recited one of his\npoems; but she counted the change after sending him out with a dollar\nto buy some pickled pig\u2019s feet. Deportment 75 out of a possible 100.\nMorals 100. Mary was one of the princesses of Bohemia. In the first place, it was a\nroyal and a daring thing to have been named Mary. There are twenty\nFifines and Heloises to one Mary in the Country of Elusion.", "words": 303}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Now her gloves are tucked in. Miss Tooker has assumed a June poster\npose; Mrs. Pothunter has bitten her lips to make the red show; Reeves\nhas several times felt his coat to make sure that his latest poem is in\nthe pocket. (It had been neatly typewritten; but he has copied it on\nthe backs of letters with a pencil.) Kappelman is underhandedly\nwatching the clock. It is ten minutes to nine. When the hour comes it\nis to remind him of a story. Synopsis: A French girl says to her\nsuitor: \u201cDid you ask my father for my hand at nine o\u2019clock this\nmorning, as you said you would?\u201d \u201cI did not,\u201d he replies. \u201cAt nine\no\u2019clock I was fighting a duel with swords in the Bois de Boulogne.\u201d\n\u201cCoward!\u201d she hisses. The dinner was ordered. You know how the Bohemian feast of reason keeps\nup with the courses. Humor with the oysters; wit with the soup;\nrepartee with the entr\u00e9e; brag with the roast; knocks for Whistler and\nKipling with the salad; songs with the coffee; the slapsticks with the\ncordials.", "words": 184}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Between Miss Adrian\u2019s eyebrows was the pucker that shows the intense\nstrain it requires to be at ease in Bohemia. Pat must come each sally,\n_mot_, and epigram. Every second of deliberation upon a reply costs you\na bay leaf. Fine as a hair, a line began to curve from her nostrils to\nher mouth. To hold her own not a chance must be missed. A sentence\naddressed to her must be as a piccolo, each word of it a stop, which\nshe must be prepared to seize upon and play. And she must always be\nquicker than a Micmac Indian to paddle the light canoe of conversation\naway from the rocks in the rapids that flow from the Pierian spring.\nFor, plodding reader, the handwriting on the wall in the banquet hall\nof Bohemia is \u201c_Laisser faire_.\u201d The gray ghost that sometimes peeps\nthrough the rings of smoke is that of slain old King Convention.\nFreedom is the tyrant that holds them in slavery. As the dinner waned, hands reached for the pepper cruet rather than for\nthe shaker of Attic salt. Miss Tooker, with an elbow to business,\nleaned across the table toward Grainger, upsetting her glass of wine. \u201cNow while you are fed and in good humor,\u201d she said, \u201cI want to make a\nsuggestion to you about a new cover.\u201d \u201cA good idea,\u201d said Grainger, mopping the tablecloth with his napkin.\n\u201cI\u2019ll speak to the waiter about it.\u201d", "words": 242}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Kappelman, the painter, was the cut-up. As a piece of delicate Athenian\nwit he got up from his chair and waltzed down the room with a waiter.\nThat dependent, no doubt an honest, pachydermatous, worthy, tax-paying,\nart-despising biped, released himself from the unequal encounter,\ncarried his professional smile back to the dumb-waiter and dropped it\ndown the shaft to eternal oblivion. Reeves began to make Keats turn in\nhis grave. Mrs. Pothunter told the story of the man who met the widow\non the train. Miss Adrian hummed what is still called a _chanson_ in\nthe caf\u00e9s of Bridgeport. Grainger edited each individual effort with\nhis assistant editor\u2019s smile, which meant: \u201cGreat! but you\u2019ll have to\nsend them in through the regular channels. If I were the chief now\u2014but\nyou know how it is.\u201d And soon the head waiter bowed before them, desolated to relate that\nthe closing hour had already become chronologically historical; so out\nall trooped into the starry midnight, filling the street with gay\nlaughter, to be barked at by hopeful cabmen and enviously eyed by the\ndull inhabitants of an uninspired world. Grainger left Mary at the elevator in the trackless palm forest of the\nIdealia. After he had gone she came down again carrying a small\nhand-bag, \u2019phoned for a cab, drove to the Grand Central Station,\nboarded a 12.55 commuter\u2019s train, rode four hours with her burnt-umber\nhead bobbing against the red-plush back of the seat, and landed during\na fresh, stinging, glorious sunrise at a deserted station, the size of\na peach crate, called Crocusville. She walked a mile and clicked the latch of a gate. A bare, brown\ncottage stood twenty yards back; an old man with a pearl-white,\nCalvinistic face and clothes dyed blacker than a raven in a coal-mine\nwas washing his hands in a tin basin on the front porch. \u201cHow are you, father?\u201d said Mary timidly.", "words": 318}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI am as well as Providence permits, Mary Ann. You will find your\nmother in the kitchen.\u201d In the kitchen a cryptic, gray woman kissed her glacially on the\nforehead, and pointed out the potatoes which were not yet peeled for\nbreakfast. Mary sat in a wooden chair and decorticated spuds, with a\nthrill in her heart. For breakfast there were grace, cold bread, potatoes, bacon, and tea. \u201cYou are pursuing the same avocation in the city concerning which you\nhave advised us from time to time by letter, I trust,\u201d said her father. \u201cYes,\u201d said Mary, \u201cI am still reviewing books for the same\npublication.\u201d After breakfast she helped wash the dishes, and then all three sat in\nstraight-back chairs in the bare-floored parlor. \u201cIt is my custom,\u201d said the old man, \u201con the Sabbath day to read aloud\nfrom the great work entitled the \u2018Apology for Authorized and Set Forms\nof Liturgy,\u2019 by the ecclesiastical philosopher and revered theologian,\nJeremy Taylor.\u201d \u201cI know it,\u201d said Mary blissfully, folding her hands. For two hours the numbers of the great Jeremy rolled forth like the\nnotes of an oratorio played on the violoncello. Mary sat gloating in\nthe new sensation of racking physical discomfort that the wooden chair\nbrought her. Perhaps there is no happiness in life so perfect as the\nmartyr\u2019s. Jeremy\u2019s minor chords soothed her like the music of a\ntom-tom. \u201cWhy, oh why,\u201d she said to herself, \u201cdoes some one not write\nwords to it?\u201d", "words": 248}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At eleven they went to church in Crocusville. The back of the pine\nbench on which she sat had a penitential forward tilt that would have\nbrought St. Simeon down, in jealousy, from his pillar. The preacher\nsingled her out, and thundered upon her vicarious head the damnation of\nthe world. At each side of her an adamant parent held her rigidly to\nthe bar of judgment. An ant crawled upon her neck, but she dared not\nmove. She lowered her eyes before the congregation\u2014a hundred-eyed\nCerberus that watched the gates through which her sins were fast\nthrusting her. Her soul was filled with a delirious, almost a fanatic\njoy. For she was out of the clutch of the tyrant, Freedom. Dogma and\ncreed pinioned her with beneficent cruelty, as steel braces bind the\nfeet of a crippled child. She was hedged, adjured, shackled, shored up,\nstrait-jacketed, silenced, ordered. When they came out the minister\nstopped to greet them. Mary could only hang her head and answer \u201cYes,\nsir,\u201d and \u201cNo, sir,\u201d to his questions. When she saw that the other\nwomen carried their hymn-books at their waists with their left hands,\nshe blushed and moved hers there, too, from her right. She took the three-o\u2019clock train back to the city. At nine she sat at\nthe round table for dinner in the Caf\u00e9 Andr\u00e9. Nearly the same crowd was\nthere. \u201cWhere have you been to-day?\u201d asked Mrs. Pothunter. \u201cI \u2019phoned to you\nat twelve.\u201d \u201cI have been away in Bohemia,\u201d answered Mary, with a mystic smile.", "words": 257}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There! Mary has given it away. She has spoiled my climax. For I was to\nhave told you that Bohemia is nothing more than the little country in\nwhich you do not live. If you try to obtain citizenship in it, at once\nthe court and retinue pack the royal archives and treasure and move\naway beyond the hills. It is a hillside that you turn your head to peer\nat from the windows of the Through Express. At exactly half past eleven Kappelman, deceived by a new softness and\nslowness of riposte and parry in Mary Adrian, tried to kiss her.\nInstantly she slapped his face with such strength and cold fury that he\nshrank down, sobered, with the flaming red print of a hand across his\nleering features. And all sounds ceased, as when the shadows of great\nwings come upon a flock of chattering sparrows. One had broken the\nparamount law of sham-Bohemia\u2014the law of \u201c_Laisser faire_.\u201d The shock\ncame not from the blow delivered, but from the blow received. With the\neffect of a schoolmaster entering the play-room of his pupils was that\nblow administered. Women pulled down their sleeves and laid prim hands\nagainst their ruffled side locks. Men looked at their watches. There\nwas nothing of the effect of a brawl about it; it was purely the still\npanic produced by the sound of the ax of the fly cop, Conscience\nhammering at the gambling-house doors of the Heart. With their punctilious putting on of cloaks, with their exaggerated\npretense of not having seen or heard, with their stammering exchange of\nunaccustomed formalities, with their false show of a light-hearted exit\nI must take leave of my Bohemian party. Mary has robbed me of my\nclimax; and she may go.", "words": 296}, {"story": 90, "title": "THE COUNTRY OF ELUSION", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "But I am not defeated. Somewhere there exists a great vault miles broad\nand miles long\u2014more capacious than the champagne caves of France. In\nthat vault are stored the anticlimaxes that should have been tagged to\nall the stories that have been told in the world. I shall cheat that\nvault of one deposit. Minnie Brown, with her aunt, came from Crocusville down to the city to\nsee the sights. And because she had escorted me to fishless trout\nstreams and exhibited to me open-plumbed waterfalls and broken my\ncamera while I Julyed in her village, I must escort her to the hives\ncontaining the synthetic clover honey of town. Especially did the custom-made Bohemia charm her. The spaghetti wound\nits tendrils about her heart; the free red wine drowned her belief in\nthe existence of commercialism in the world; she was dared and\nenchanted by the rugose wit that can be churned out of California\nclaret. But one evening I got her away from the smell of halibut and linoleum\nlong enough to read to her the manuscript of this story, which then\nended before her entrance into it. I read it to her because I knew that\nall the printing-presses in the world were running to try to please her\nand some others. And I asked her about it. \u201cI didn\u2019t quite catch the trains,\u201d said she. \u201cHow long was Mary in\nCrocusville?\u201d \u201cTen hours and five minutes,\u201d I replied. \u201cWell, then, the story may do,\u201d said Minnie. \u201cBut if she had stayed\nthere a week Kappelman would have got his kiss.\u201d", "words": 264}, {"story": 91, "title": "THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At the street corner, as solid as granite in the \u201crush-hour\u201d tide of\nhumanity, stood the Man from Nome. The Arctic winds and sun had stained\nhim berry-brown. His eye still held the azure glint of the glaciers. He was as alert as a fox, as tough as a caribou cutlet and as\nbroad-gauged as the aurora borealis. He stood sprayed by a Niagara of\nsound\u2014the crash of the elevated trains, clanging cars, pounding of\nrubberless tires and the antiphony of the cab and truck-drivers\nindulging in scarifying repartee. And so, with his gold dust cashed in\nto the merry air of a hundred thousand, and with the cakes and ale of\none week in Gotham turning bitter on his tongue, the Man from Nome\nsighed to set foot again in Chilkoot, the exit from the land of street\nnoises and Dead Sea apple pies. Up Sixth avenue, with the tripping, scurrying, chattering, bright-eyed,\nhoming tide came the Girl from Sieber-Mason\u2019s. The Man from Nome looked\nand saw, first, that she was supremely beautiful after his own\nconception of beauty; and next, that she moved with exactly the steady\ngrace of a dog sled on a level crust of snow. His third sensation was\nan instantaneous conviction that he desired her greatly for his own.\nThis quickly do men from Nome make up their minds. Besides, he was\ngoing back to the North in a short time, and to act quickly was no less\nnecessary. A thousand girls from the great department store of Sieber-Mason flowed\nalong the sidewalk, making navigation dangerous to men whose feminine\nfield of vision for three years has been chiefly limited to Siwash and\nChilkat squaws. But the Man from Nome, loyal to her who had resurrected\nhis long cached heart, plunged into the stream of pulchritude and\nfollowed her.", "words": 305}, {"story": 91, "title": "THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Down Twenty-third street she glided swiftly, looking to neither side;\nno more flirtatious than the bronze Diana above the Garden. Her fine\nbrown hair was neatly braided; her neat waist and unwrinkled black\nskirt were eloquent of the double virtues\u2014taste and economy. Ten yards\nbehind followed the smitten Man from Nome. Miss Claribel Colby, the Girl from Sieber-Mason\u2019s, belonged to that sad\ncompany of mariners known as Jersey commuters. She walked into the\nwaiting-room of the ferry, and up the stairs, and by a marvellous\nswift, little run, caught the ferry-boat that was just going out. The\nMan from Nome closed up his ten yards in three jumps and gained the\ndeck close beside her. Miss Colby chose a rather lonely seat on the outside of the\nupper-cabin. The night was not cold, and she desired to be away from\nthe curious eyes and tedious voices of the passengers. Besides, she was\nextremely weary and drooping from lack of sleep. On the previous night\nshe had graced the annual ball and oyster fry of the West Side\nWholesale Fish Dealers\u2019 Assistants\u2019 Social Club No. 2, thus reducing\nher usual time of sleep to only three hours. And the day had been uncommonly troublous. Customers had been\ninordinately trying; the buyer in her department had scolded her\nroundly for letting her stock run down; her best friend, Mamie Tuthill,\nhad snubbed her by going to lunch with that Dockery girl. The Girl from Sieber-Mason\u2019s was in that relaxed, softened mood that\noften comes to the independent feminine wage-earner. It is a mood most\npropitious for the man who would woo her. Then she has yearnings to be\nset in some home and heart; to be comforted, and to hide behind some\nstrong arm and rest, rest. But Miss Claribel Colby was also very\nsleepy.", "words": 303}, {"story": 91, "title": "THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "There came to her side a strong man, browned and dressed carelessly in\nthe best of clothes, with his hat in his hand. \u201cLady,\u201d said the Man from Nome, respectfully, \u201cexcuse me for speaking\nto you, but I\u2014I\u2014I saw you on the street, and\u2014and\u2014\u201d \u201cOh, gee!\u201d remarked the Girl from Sieber-Mason\u2019s, glancing up with the\nmost capable coolness. \u201cAin\u2019t there any way to ever get rid of you\nmashers? I\u2019ve tried everything from eating onions to using hatpins. Be\non your way, Freddie.\u201d \u201cI\u2019m not one of that kind, lady,\u201d said the Man from Nome\u2014\u201chonest, I\u2019m\nnot. As I say, I saw you on the street, and I wanted to know you so bad\nI couldn\u2019t help followin\u2019 after you. I was afraid I wouldn\u2019t ever see\nyou again in this big town unless I spoke; and that\u2019s why I done so.\u201d Miss Colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on the\nferry-boat. No; he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazen\nswagger of the lady-killer. Sincerity and modesty shone through his\nboreal tan. It seemed to her that it might be good to hear a little of\nwhat he had to say. \u201cYou may sit down,\u201d she said, laying her hand over a yawn with\nostentatious politness; \u201cand\u2014mind\u2014don\u2019t get fresh or I\u2019ll call the\nsteward.\u201d The Man from Nome sat by her side. He admired her greatly. He more than\nadmired her. She had exactly the looks he had tried so long in vain to\nfind in a woman. Could she ever come to like him? Well, that was to be\nseen. He must do all in his power to stake his claim, anyhow. \u201cMy name\u2019s Blayden,\u201d said he\u2014\u201cHenry Blayden.\u201d \u201cAre you real sure it ain\u2019t Jones?\u201d asked the girl, leaning toward him,\nwith delicious, knowing raillery.", "words": 303}, {"story": 91, "title": "THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cI\u2019m down from Nome,\u201d he went on with anxious seriousness. \u201cI scraped\ntogether a pretty good lot of dust up there, and brought it down with\nme.\u201d \u201cOh, say!\u201d she rippled, pursuing persiflage with engaging lightness,\n\u201cthen you must be on the White Wings force. I thought I\u2019d seen you\nsomewhere.\u201d \u201cYou didn\u2019t see me on the street to-day when I saw you.\u201d \u201cI never look at fellows on the street.\u201d \u201cWell, I looked at you; and I never looked at anything before that I\nthought was half as pretty.\u201d \u201cShall I keep the change?\u201d \u201cYes, I reckon so. I reckon you could keep anything I\u2019ve got. I reckon\nI\u2019m what you would call a rough man, but I could be awful good to\nanybody I liked. I\u2019ve had a rough time of it up yonder, but I beat the\ngame. Nearly 5,000 ounces of dust was what I cleaned up while I was\nthere.\u201d \u201cGoodness!\u201d exclaimed Miss Colby, obligingly sympathetic. \u201cIt must be\nan awful dirty place, wherever it is.\u201d And then her eyes closed. The voice of the Man from Nome had a monotony\nin its very earnestness. Besides, what dull talk was this of brooms and\nsweeping and dust? She leaned her head back against the wall. \u201cMiss,\u201d said the Man from Nome, with deeper earnestness and monotony,\n\u201cI never saw anybody I liked as well as I do you. I know you can\u2019t\nthink that way of me right yet; but can\u2019t you give me a chance? Won\u2019t\nyou let me know you, and see if I can\u2019t make you like me?\u201d The head of the Girl from Sieber-Mason\u2019s slid over gently and rested\nupon his shoulder. Sweet sleep had won her, and she was dreaming\nrapturously of the Wholesale Fish Dealers\u2019 Assistants\u2019 ball.", "words": 298}, {"story": 91, "title": "THE FERRY OF UNFULFILMENT", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "The gentleman from Nome kept his arms to himself. He did not suspect\nsleep, and yet he was too wise to attribute the movement to surrender.\nHe was greatly and blissfully thrilled, but he ended by regarding the\nhead upon his shoulder as an encouraging preliminary, merely advanced\nas a harbinger of his success, and not to be taken advantage of. One small speck of alloy discounted the gold of his satisfaction. Had\nhe spoken too freely of his wealth? He wanted to be liked for himself. \u201cI want to say, Miss,\u201d he said, \u201cthat you can count on me. They know me\nin the Klondike from Juneau to Circle City and down the whole length of\nthe Yukon. Many a night I\u2019ve laid in the snow up there where I worked\nlike a slave for three years, and wondered if I\u2019d ever have anybody to\nlike me. I didn\u2019t want all that dust just myself. I thought I\u2019d meet\njust the right one some time, and I done it to-day. Money\u2019s a mighty\ngood thing to have, but to have the love of the one you like best is\nbetter still. If you was ever to marry a man, Miss, which would you\nrather he\u2019d have?\u201d \u201cCash!\u201d The word came sharply and loudly from Miss Colby\u2019s lips, giving\nevidence that in her dreams she was now behind her counter in the great\ndepartment store of Sieber-Mason. Her head suddenly bobbed over sideways. She awoke, sat straight, and\nrubbed her eyes. The Man from Nome was gone. \u201cGee! I believe I\u2019ve been asleep,\u201d said Miss Colby. \u201cWonder what became\nof the White Wings!\u201d", "words": 273}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little old\nten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper. Oh,\nvery well! Pass up this _sotto voce_ autobiography of an X if you like.\nIf you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to John D\u2019s checkbook\nroar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, all right. But don\u2019t\nforget that small change can say a word to the point now and then. The\nnext time you tip your grocer\u2019s clerk a silver quarter to give you\nextra weight of his boss\u2019s goods read the four words above the lady\u2019s\nhead. How are they for repartee? I am a ten-dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seen one\nin a friend\u2019s hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture of the\nbison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millions of\nAmericans. The heads of Capt. Lewis and Capt. Clark adorn the ends. On\nmy back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres or Maxine Elliot\nstanding in the centre of the stage on a conservatory plant. My\nreferences is\u2014or are\u2014Section 3,588, Revised Statutes. Ten cold, hard\ndollars\u2014I don\u2019t say whether silver, gold, lead or iron\u2014Uncle Sam will\nhand you over his counter if you want to cash me in. I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make\u2014thanks, I\nknew you would\u2014got that sneaking little respect and agreeable feeling\ntoward even an X, haven\u2019t you? You see, a tainted bill doesn\u2019t have\nmuch chance to acquire a correct form of expression. I never knew a\nreally cultured and educated person that could afford to hold a\nten-spot any longer than it would take to do an Arthur Duffy to the\nnearest That\u2019s All! sign or delicatessen store.", "words": 306}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "For a six-year-old, I\u2019ve had a lively and gorgeous circulation. I guess\nI\u2019ve paid as many debts as the man who dies. I\u2019ve been owned by a good\nmany kinds of people. But a little old ragged, damp, dingy five-dollar\nsilver certificate gave me a jar one day. I was next to it in the fat\nand bad-smelling purse of a butcher. \u201cHey, you Sitting Bull,\u201d says I, \u201cdon\u2019t scrouge so. Anyhow, don\u2019t you\nthink it\u2019s about time you went in on a customs payment and got\nreissued? For a series of 1899 you\u2019re a sight.\u201d \u201cOh, don\u2019t get crackly just because you\u2019re a Buffalo bill,\u201d says the\nfiver. \u201cYou\u2019d be limp, too, if you\u2019d been stuffed down in a thick\ncotton-and-lisle-thread under an elastic all day, and the thermometer\nnot a degree under 85 in the store.\u201d \u201cI never heard of a pocketbook like that,\u201d says I. \u201cWho carried you?\u201d \u201cA shopgirl,\u201d says the five-spot. \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I had to ask. \u201cYou\u2019ll never know till their millennium comes,\u201d says the fiver. Just then a two-dollar bill behind me with a George Washington head,\nspoke up to the fiver: \u201cAw, cut out yer kicks. Ain\u2019t lisle thread good enough for yer? If you\nwas under all cotton like I\u2019ve been to-day, and choked up with factory\ndust till the lady with the cornucopia on me sneezed half a dozen\ntimes, you\u2019d have some reason to complain.\u201d That was the next day after I arrived in New York. I came in a $500\npackage of tens to a Brooklyn bank from one of its Pennsylvania\ncorrespondents\u2014and I haven\u2019t made the acquaintance of any of the five\nand two spot\u2019s friends\u2019 pocketbooks yet. Silk for mine, every time.", "words": 286}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "I was lucky money. I kept on the move. Sometimes I changed hands twenty\ntimes a day. I saw the inside of every business; I fought for my\nowner\u2019s every pleasure. It seemed that on Saturday nights I never\nmissed being slapped down on a bar. Tens were always slapped down,\nwhile ones and twos were slid over to the bartenders folded. I got in\nthe habit of looking for mine, and I managed to soak in a little\nstraight or some spilled Martini or Manhattan whenever I could. Once I\ngot tied up in a great greasy roll of bills in a pushcart peddler\u2019s\njeans. I thought I never would get in circulation again, for the future\ndepartment store owner lived on eight cents\u2019 worth of dog meat and\nonions a day. But this peddler got into trouble one day on account of\nhaving his cart too near a crossing, and I was rescued. I always will\nfeel grateful to the cop that got me. He changed me at a cigar store\nnear the Bowery that was running a crap game in the back room. So it\nwas the Captain of the precinct, after all, that did me the best turn,\nwhen he got his. He blew me for wine the next evening in a Broadway\nrestaurant; and I really felt as glad to get back again as an Astor\ndoes when he sees the lights of Charing Cross.", "words": 240}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A tainted ten certainly does get action on Broadway. I was alimony\nonce, and got folded in a little dogskin purse among a lot of dimes.\nThey were bragging about the busy times there were in Ossining whenever\nthree girls got hold of one of them during the ice cream season. But\nit\u2019s Slow Moving Vehicles Keep to the Right for the little Bok tips\nwhen you think of the way we bison plasters refuse to stick to anything\nduring the rush lobster hour. The first I ever heard of tainted money was one night when a good thing\nwith a Van to his name threw me over with some other bills to buy a\nstack of blues. About midnight a big, easy-going man with a fat face like a monk\u2019s and\nthe eye of a janitor with his wages raised took me and a lot of other\nnotes and rolled us into what is termed a \u201cwad\u201d among the money\ntainters. \u201cTicket me for five hundred,\u201d said he to the banker, \u201cand look out for\neverything, Charlie. I\u2019m going out for a stroll in the glen before the\nmoonlight fades from the brow of the cliff. If anybody finds the roof\nin their way there\u2019s $60,000 wrapped in a comic supplement in the upper\nleft-hand corner of the safe. Be bold; everywhere be bold, but be not\nbowled over. \u2019Night.\u201d I found myself between two $20 gold certificates. One of \u2019em says to\nme: \u201cWell, old shorthorn, you\u2019re in luck to-night. You\u2019ll see something of\nlife. Old Jack\u2019s going to make the Tenderloin look like a hamburg\nsteak.\u201d \u201cExplain,\u201d says I. \u201cI\u2019m used to joints, but I don\u2019t care for filet\nmignon with the kind of sauce you serve.\u201d", "words": 290}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201c\u2019Xcuse me,\u201d said the twenty. \u201cOld Jack is the proprietor of this\ngambling house. He\u2019s going on a whiz to-night because he offered\n$50,000 to a church and it refused to accept it because they said his\nmoney was tainted.\u201d \u201cWhat is a church?\u201d I asked. \u201cOh, I forgot,\u201d says the twenty, \u201cthat I was talking to a tenner. Of\ncourse you don\u2019t know. You\u2019re too much to put into the contribution\nbasket, and not enough to buy anything at a bazaar. A church is\u2014a large\nbuilding in which penwipers and tidies are sold at $20 each.\u201d I don\u2019t care much about chinning with gold certificates. There\u2019s a\nstreak of yellow in \u2019em. All is not gold that\u2019s quitters. Old Jack certainly was a gild-edged sport. When it came his time to\nloosen up he never referred the waiter to an actuary. By and by it got around that he was smiting the rock in the wilderness;\nand all along Broadway things with cold noses and hot gullets fell in\non our trail. The third Jungle Book was there waiting for somebody to\nput covers on it. Old Jack\u2019s money may have had a taint to it, but all\nthe same he had orders for his Camembert piling up on him every minute.\nFirst his friends rallied round him; and then the fellows that his\nfriends knew by sight; and then a few of his enemies buried the\nhatchet; and finally he was buying souvenirs for so many Neapolitan\nfisher maidens and butterfly octettes that the head waiters were\n\u2019phoning all over town for Julian Mitchell to please come around and\nget them into some kind of order.", "words": 278}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "At last we floated into an uptown caf\u00e9 that I knew by heart. When the\nhod-carriers\u2019 union in jackets and aprons saw us coming the chief goal\nkicker called out: \u201cSix\u2014eleven\u2014forty-two\u2014nineteen\u2014twelve\u201d to his men,\nand they put on nose guards till it was clear whether we meant Port\nArthur or Portsmouth. But Old Jack wasn\u2019t working for the furniture and\nglass factories that night. He sat down quiet and sang \u201cRamble\u201d in a\nhalf-hearted way. His feelings had been hurt, so the twenty told me,\nbecause his offer to the church had been refused. But the wassail went on; and Brady himself couldn\u2019t have hammered the\nthirst mob into a better imitation of the real penchant for the stuff\nthat you screw out of a bottle with a napkin. Old Jack paid the twenty above me for a round, leaving me on the\noutside of his roll. He laid the roll on the table and sent for the\nproprietor. \u201cMike,\u201d says he, \u201chere\u2019s money that the good people have refused. Will\nit buy of your wares in the name of the devil? They say it\u2019s tainted.\u201d \u201cIt will,\u201d says Mike, \u201cand I\u2019ll put it in the drawer next to the bills\nthat was paid to the parson\u2019s daughter for kisses at the church fair to\nbuild a new parsonage for the parson\u2019s daughter to live in.\u201d At 1 o\u2019clock when the hod-carriers were making ready to close up the\nfront and keep the inside open, a woman slips in the door of the\nrestaurant and comes up to Old Jack\u2019s table. You\u2019ve seen the kind\u2014black\nshawl, creepy hair, ragged skirt, white face, eyes a cross between\nGabriel\u2019s and a sick kitten\u2019s\u2014the kind of woman that\u2019s always on the\nlookout for an automobile or the mendicancy squad\u2014and she stands there\nwithout a word and looks at the money.", "words": 307}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Old Jack gets up, peels me off the roll and hands me to her with a bow. \u201cMadam,\u201d says he, just like actors I\u2019ve heard, \u201chere is a tainted bill.\nI am a gambler. This bill came to me to-night from a gentleman\u2019s son.\nWhere he got it I do not know. If you will do me the favor to accept\nit, it is yours.\u201d The woman took me with a trembling hand. \u201cSir,\u201d said she, \u201cI counted thousands of this issue of bills into\npackages when they were virgin from the presses. I was a clerk in the\nTreasury Department. There was an official to whom I owed my position.\nYou say they are tainted now. If you only knew\u2014but I won\u2019t say any\nmore. Thank you with all my heart, sir\u2014thank you\u2014thank you.\u201d Where do you suppose that woman carried me almost at a run? To a\nbakery. Away from Old Jack and a sizzling good time to a bakery. And I\nget changed, and she does a Sheridan-twenty-miles-away with a dozen\nrolls and a section of jelly cake as big as a turbine water-wheel. Of\ncourse I lost sight of her then, for I was snowed up in the bakery,\nwondering whether I\u2019d get changed at the drug store the next day in an\nalum deal or paid over to the cement works. A week afterward I butted up against one of the one-dollar bills the\nbaker had given the woman for change. \u201cHallo, E35039669,\u201d says I, \u201cweren\u2019t you in the change for me in a\nbakery last Saturday night?\u201d \u201cYep,\u201d says the solitaire in his free and easy style. \u201cHow did the deal turn out?\u201d I asked.", "words": 281}, {"story": 92, "title": "THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cShe blew E17051431 for milk and round steak,\u201d says the one-spot. \u201cShe\nkept me till the rent man came. It was a bum room with a sick kid in\nit. But you ought to have seen him go for the bread and tincture of\nformaldehyde. Half-starved, I guess. Then she prayed some. Don\u2019t get\nstuck up, tenner. We one-spots hear ten prayers, where you hear one.\nShe said something about \u2018who giveth to the poor.\u2019 Oh, let\u2019s cut out\nthe slum talk. I\u2019m certainly tired of the company that keeps me. I wish\nI was big enough to move in society with you tainted bills.\u201d \u201cShut up,\u201d says I; \u201cthere\u2019s no such thing. I know the rest of it.\nThere\u2019s a \u2018lendeth to the Lord\u2019 somewhere in it. Now look on my back\nand read what you see there.\u201d \u201cThis note is a legal tender at its face value for all debts public and\nprivate.\u201d \u201cThis talk about tainted money makes me tired,\u201d says I.", "words": 165}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "No, bumptious reader, this story is not a continuation of the Elsie\nseries. But if your Elsie had lived over here in our big city there\nmight have been a chapter in her books not very different from this. Especially for the vagrant feet of youth are the roads of Manhattan\nbeset \u201cwith pitfall and with gin.\u201d But the civic guardians of the young\nhave made themselves acquainted with the snares of the wicked, and most\nof the dangerous paths are patrolled by their agents, who seek to turn\nstraying ones away from the peril that menaces them. And this will tell\nyou how they guided my Elsie safely through all peril to the goal that\nshe was seeking. Elsie\u2019s father had been a cutter for Fox & Otter, cloaks and furs, on\nlower Broadway. He was an old man, with a slow and limping gait, so a\npot-hunter of a newly licensed chauffeur ran him down one day when\nlivelier game was scarce. They took the old man home, where he lay on\nhis bed for a year and then died, leaving $2.50 in cash and a letter\nfrom Mr. Otter offering to do anything he could to help his faithful\nold employee. The old cutter regarded this letter as a valuable legacy\nto his daughter, and he put it into her hands with pride as the shears\nof the dread Cleaner and Repairer snipped off his thread of life.", "words": 241}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "That was the landlord\u2019s cue; and forth he came and did his part in the\ngreat eviction scene. There was no snowstorm ready for Elsie to steal\nout into, drawing her little red woollen shawl about her shoulders, but\nshe went out, regardless of the unities. And as for the red shawl\u2014back\nto Blaney with it! Elsie\u2019s fall tan coat was cheap, but it had the\nstyle and fit of the best at Fox & Otter\u2019s. And her lucky stars had\ngiven her good looks, and eyes as blue and innocent as the new shade of\nnote paper, and she had $1 left of the $2.50. And the letter from Mr.\nOtter. Keep your eye on the letter from Mr. Otter. That is the clue. I\ndesire that everything be made plain as we go. Detective stories are so\nplentiful now that they do not sell. And so we find Elsie, thus equipped, starting out in the world to seek\nher fortune. One trouble about the letter from Mr. Otter was that it\ndid not bear the new address of the firm, which had moved about a month\nbefore. But Elsie thought she could find it. She had heard that\npolicemen, when politely addressed, or thumbscrewed by an investigation\ncommittee, will give up information and addresses. So she boarded a\ndowntown car at One Hundred and Seventy-seventh street and rode south\nto Forty-second, which she thought must surely be the end of the\nisland. There she stood against the wall undecided, for the city\u2019s roar\nand dash was new to her. Up where she had lived was rural New York, so\nfar out that the milkmen awaken you in the morning by the squeaking of\npumps instead of the rattling of cans.", "words": 292}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "A kind-faced, sunburned young man in a soft-brimmed hat went past Elsie\ninto the Grand Central Depot. That was Hank Ross, of the Sunflower\nRanch, in Idaho, on his way home from a visit to the East. Hank\u2019s heart\nwas heavy, for the Sunflower Ranch was a lonesome place, lacking the\npresence of a woman. He had hoped to find one during his visit who\nwould congenially share his prosperity and home, but the girls of\nGotham had not pleased his fancy. But, as he passed in, he noted, with\na jumping of his pulses, the sweet, ingenuous face of Elsie and her\npose of doubt and loneliness. With true and honest Western impulse he\nsaid to himself that here was his mate. He could love her, he knew; and\nhe would surround her with so much comfort, and cherish her so\ncarefully that she would be happy, and make two sunflowers grow on the\nranch where there grew but one before. Hank turned and went back to her. Backed by his never before questioned\nhonesty of purpose, he approached the girl and removed his soft-brimmed\nhat. Elsie had but time to sum up his handsome frank face with one shy\nlook of modest admiration when a burly cop hurled himself upon the\nranchman, seized him by the collar and backed him against the wall. Two\nblocks away a burglar was coming out of an apartment-house with a bag\nof silverware on his shoulder; but that is neither here nor there. \u201cCarry on yez mashin\u2019 tricks right before me eyes, will yez?\u201d shouted\nthe cop. \u201cI\u2019ll teach yez to speak to ladies on me beat that ye\u2019re not\nacquainted with. Come along.\u201d", "words": 282}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Elsie turned away with a sigh as the ranchman was dragged away. She had\nliked the effect of his light blue eyes against his tanned complexion.\nShe walked southward, thinking herself already in the district where\nher father used to work, and hoping to find some one who could direct\nher to the firm of Fox & Otter. But did she want to find Mr. Otter? She had inherited much of the old\ncutter\u2019s independence. How much better it would be if she could find\nwork and support herself without calling on him for aid! Elsie saw a sign \u201cEmployment Agency\u201d and went in. Many girls were\nsitting against the wall in chairs. Several well-dressed ladies were\nlooking them over. One white-haired, kind-faced old lady in rustling\nblack silk hurried up to Elsie. \u201cMy dear,\u201d she said in a sweet, gentle voice, \u201care you looking for a\nposition? I like your face and appearance so much. I want a young woman\nwho will be half maid and half companion to me. You will have a good\nhome and I will pay you $30 a month.\u201d Before Elsie could stammer forth her gratified acceptance, a young\nwoman with gold glasses on her bony nose and her hands in her jacket\npockets seized her arm and drew her aside. \u201cI am Miss Ticklebaum,\u201d said she, \u201cof the Association for the\nPrevention of Jobs Being Put Up on Working Girls Looking for Jobs. We\nprevented forty-seven girls from securing positions last week. I am\nhere to protect you. Beware of any one who offers you a job. How do you\nknow that this woman does not want to make you work as a breaker-boy in\na coal mine or murder you to get your teeth? If you accept work of any\nkind without permission of our association you will be arrested by one\nof our agents.\u201d", "words": 313}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cBut what am I to do?\u201d asked Elsie. \u201cI have no home or money. I must do\nsomething. Why am I not allowed to accept this kind lady\u2019s offer?\u201d \u201cI do not know,\u201d said Miss Ticklebaum. \u201cThat is the affair of our\nCommittee on the Abolishment of Employers. It is my duty simply to see\nthat you do not get work. You will give me your name and address and\nreport to our secretary every Thursday. We have 600 girls on the\nwaiting list who will in time be allowed to accept positions as\nvacancies occur on our roll of Qualified Employers, which now comprises\ntwenty-seven names. There is prayer, music and lemonade in our chapel\nthe third Sunday of every month.\u201d Elsie hurried away after thanking Miss Ticklebaum for her timely\nwarning and advice. After all, it seemed that she must try to find Mr.\nOtter. But after walking a few blocks she saw a sign, \u201cCashier wanted,\u201d in the\nwindow of a confectionery store. In she went and applied for the place,\nafter casting a quick glance over her shoulder to assure herself that\nthe job-preventer was not on her trail. The proprietor of the confectionery was a benevolent old man with a\npeppermint flavor, who decided, after questioning Elsie pretty closely,\nthat she was the very girl he wanted. Her services were needed at once,\nso Elsie, with a thankful heart, drew off her tan coat and prepared to\nmount the cashier\u2019s stool. But before she could do so a gaunt lady wearing steel spectacles and\nblack mittens stood before her, with a long finger pointing, and\nexclaimed: \u201cYoung woman, hesitate!\u201d Elsie hesitated. \u201cDo you know,\u201d said the black-and-steel lady, \u201cthat in accepting this\nposition you may this day cause the loss of a hundred lives in\nagonizing physical torture and the sending as many souls to perdition?\u201d", "words": 311}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cWhy, no,\u201d said Elsie, in frightened tones. \u201cHow could I do that?\u201d \u201cRum,\u201d said the lady\u2014\u201cthe demon rum. Do you know why so many lives are\nlost when a theatre catches fire? Brandy balls. The demon rum lurking\nin brandy balls. Our society women while in theatres sit grossly\nintoxicated from eating these candies filled with brandy. When the fire\nfiend sweeps down upon them they are unable to escape. The candy stores\nare the devil\u2019s distilleries. If you assist in the distribution of\nthese insidious confections you assist in the destruction of the bodies\nand souls of your fellow-beings, and in the filling of our jails,\nasylums and almshouses. Think, girl, ere you touch the money for which\nbrandy balls are sold.\u201d \u201cDear me,\u201d said Elsie, bewildered. \u201cI didn\u2019t know there was rum in\nbrandy balls. But I must live by some means. What shall I do?\u201d \u201cDecline the position,\u201d said the lady, \u201cand come with me. I will tell\nyou what to do.\u201d After Elsie had told the confectioner that she had changed her mind\nabout the cashiership she put on her coat and followed the lady to the\nsidewalk, where awaited an elegant victoria. \u201cSeek some other work,\u201d said the black-and-steel lady, \u201cand assist in\ncrushing the hydra-headed demon rum.\u201d And she got into the victoria and\ndrove away. \u201cI guess that puts it up to Mr. Otter again,\u201d said Elsie, ruefully,\nturning down the street. \u201cAnd I\u2019m sorry, too, for I\u2019d much rather make\nmy way without help.\u201d Near Fourteenth street Elsie saw a placard tacked on the side of a\ndoorway that read: \u201cFifty girls, neat sewers, wanted immediately on\ntheatrical costumes. Good pay.\u201d She was about to enter, when a solemn man, dressed all in black, laid\nhis hand on her arm. \u201cMy dear girl,\u201d he said, \u201cI entreat you not to enter that dressing-room\nof the devil.\u201d", "words": 314}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "\u201cGoodness me!\u201d exclaimed Elsie, with some impatience. \u201cThe devil seems\nto have a cinch on all the business in New York. What\u2019s wrong about the\nplace?\u201d \u201cIt is here,\u201d said the solemn man, \u201cthat the regalia of Satan\u2014in other\nwords, the costumes worn on the stage\u2014are manufactured. The stage is\nthe road to ruin and destruction. Would you imperil your soul by\nlending the work of your hands to its support? Do you know, my dear\ngirl, what the theatre leads to? Do you know where actors and actresses\ngo after the curtain of the playhouse has fallen upon them for the last\ntime?\u201d \u201cSure,\u201d said Elsie. \u201cInto vaudeville. But do you think it would be\nwicked for me to make a little money to live on by sewing? I must get\nsomething to do pretty soon.\u201d \u201cThe flesh-pots of Egypt,\u201d exclaimed the reverend gentleman, uplifting\nhis hands. \u201cI beseech you, my child, to turn away from this place of\nsin and iniquity.\u201d \u201cBut what will I do for a living?\u201d asked Elsie. \u201cI don\u2019t care to sew\nfor this musical comedy, if it\u2019s as rank as you say it is; but I\u2019ve got\nto have a job.\u201d \u201cThe Lord will provide,\u201d said the solemn man. \u201cThere is a free Bible\nclass every Sunday afternoon in the basement of the cigar store next to\nthe church. Peace be with you. Amen. Farewell.\u201d Elsie went on her way. She was soon in the downtown district where\nfactories abound. On a large brick building was a gilt sign, \u201cPosey &\nTrimmer, Artificial Flowers.\u201d Below it was hung a newly stretched\ncanvas bearing the words, \u201cFive hundred girls wanted to learn trade.\nGood wages from the start. Apply one flight up.\u201d", "words": 288}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Elsie started toward the door, near which were gathered in groups some\ntwenty or thirty girls. One big girl with a black straw hat tipped down\nover her eyes stepped in front of her. \u201cSay, you\u2019se,\u201d said the girl, \u201care you\u2019se goin\u2019 in there after a job?\u201d \u201cYes,\u201d said Elsie; \u201cI must have work.\u201d \u201cNow don\u2019t do it,\u201d said the girl. \u201cI\u2019m chairman of our Scab Committee.\nThere\u2019s 400 of us girls locked out just because we demanded 50 cents a\nweek raise in wages, and ice water, and for the foreman to shave off\nhis mustache. You\u2019re too nice a looking girl to be a scab. Wouldn\u2019t you\nplease help us along by trying to find a job somewhere else, or would\nyou\u2019se rather have your face pushed in?\u201d \u201cI\u2019ll try somewhere else,\u201d said Elsie. She walked aimlessly eastward on Broadway, and there her heart leaped\nto see the sign, \u201cFox & Otter,\u201d stretching entirely across the front of\na tall building. It was as though an unseen guide had led her to it\nthrough the by-ways of her fruitless search for work. She hurried into the store and sent in to Mr. Otter by a clerk her name\nand the letter he had written her father. She was shown directly into\nhis private office. Mr. Otter arose from his desk as Elsie entered and took both hands with\na hearty smile of welcome. He was a slightly corpulent man of nearly\nmiddle age, a little bald, gold spectacled, polite, well dressed,\nradiating. \u201cWell, well, and so this is Beatty\u2019s little daughter! Your father was\none of our most efficient and valued employees. He left nothing? Well,\nwell. I hope we have not forgotten his faithful services. I am sure\nthere is a vacancy now among our models. Oh, it is easy work\u2014nothing\neasier.\u201d", "words": 305}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Mr. Otter struck a bell. A long-nosed clerk thrust a portion of himself\ninside the door. \u201cSend Miss Hawkins in,\u201d said Mr. Otter. Miss Hawkins came. \u201cMiss Hawkins,\u201d said Mr. Otter, \u201cbring for Miss Beatty to try on one of\nthose Russian sable coats and\u2014let\u2019s see\u2014one of those latest model black\ntulle hats with white tips.\u201d Elsie stood before the full-length mirror with pink cheeks and quick\nbreath. Her eyes shone like faint stars. She was beautiful. Alas! she\nwas beautiful. I wish I could stop this story here. Confound it! I will. No; it\u2019s got\nto run it out. I didn\u2019t make it up. I\u2019m just repeating it. I\u2019d like to throw bouquets at the wise cop, and the lady who rescues\nGirls from Jobs, and the prohibitionist who is trying to crush brandy\nballs, and the sky pilot who objects to costumes for stage people\n(there are others), and all the thousands of good people who are at\nwork protecting young people from the pitfalls of a great city; and\nthen wind up by pointing out how they were the means of Elsie reaching\nher father\u2019s benefactor and her kind friend and rescuer from poverty.\nThis would make a fine Elsie story of the old sort. I\u2019d like to do\nthis; but there\u2019s just a word or two to follow. While Elsie was admiring herself in the mirror, Mr. Otter went to the\ntelephone booth and called up some number. Don\u2019t ask me what it was. \u201cOscar,\u201d said he, \u201cI want you to reserve the same table for me this\nevening. \u2026 What? Why, the one in the Moorish room to the left of the\nshrubbery. \u2026 Yes; two. \u2026 Yes, the usual brand; and the \u201985\nJohannisburger with the roast. If it isn\u2019t the right temperature I\u2019ll\nbreak your neck. \u2026 No; not her \u2026 No, indeed \u2026 A new one\u2014a peacherino,\nOscar, a peacherino!\u201d", "words": 318}, {"story": 93, "title": "ELSIE IN NEW YORK", "volume": "The Trimmed Lamp, and Other Stories of the Four Million", "text": "Tired and tiresome reader, I will conclude, if you please, with a\nparaphrase of a few words that you will remember were written by him\u2014by\nhim of Gad\u2019s Hill, before whom, if you doff not your hat, you shall\nstand with a covered pumpkin\u2014aye, sir, a pumpkin. Lost, Your Excellency. Lost, Associations and Societies. Lost, Right\nReverends and Wrong Reverends of every order. Lost, Reformers and\nLawmakers, born with heavenly compassion in your hearts, but with the\nreverence of money in your souls. And lost thus around us every day.", "words": 90}] |